


The Calm Before the Storm

by MannixMind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Badass Arya, Badass Sansa, F/M, Jealousy, Jon Snow knows nothing, R plus L equals J, Slow Burn, Sorry About All the Murdering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7380076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MannixMind/pseuds/MannixMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up after S6E10.  My take on how the Starks navigate the world after the death of Ramsay and how they prepare for the threats from the Night King to the North, the Lannisters to the South, and the Mother of Dragons to the West while getting acquainted with the people they've become in the years since they parted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa 

 

She could almost see it replaying in the flames as she sat before the fire. His taunting smirk, the circling dogs, the surprise in his eyes when his prized alpha bitch jumped up and--

 

She squeezed her eyes shut trying to dispel the image.  It wasn't that it haunted her or made her sick. No, she needed to shake the images of her late husband’s demise because no person should get such perverse pleasure from such violence.

 

But she did. She reveled in it. 

 

In that was she supposed Ramsay had won after all. 

 

A knock on the door roused her from her thoughts and Jon entered, quietly shutting the door behind him. Jon. Her long neglected brother. Her untrusting confidant. Her overly honorable protector. And now her King. The love she felt for him weighed on her like a physical burden, reminding her that after everything that had happened there were still things that could be taken from her. She wanted to take heart in the fact that she could still love someone. Instead she felt panicked at the thought that she could be hurt again. So she kept him at an arms-length even as her heart ached for him to embrace her as he had when he first saw her at Castle Black.

 

"Sister," he said solemnly nodding at her in deference. "There is something I must discuss with you."

 

She regarded him for a moment trying to read from his face what he was referring to, but she came up with nothing so instead she nodded at the table murmuring, "Of course. Please sit."

 

The last time he'd come to her chamber to speak with her in private it had been to ask her for her blessing on his impromptu coronation as King in the North. He'd been worried then that he'd taken something from her, that she would be angry to see him assuming the title that had been Robb’s not so very long ago.  His eyes had been pleading then, but now they were guarded and cautious as if he was appraising her and trying desperately to figure out what he saw.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

There was no point in him gaging her reaction when she truly didn’t know what he was upset about.

 

“You know I’d never judge you.  For what you did to Ramsay.  I know he hurt you, and I gave him to you so you could have your vengeance, and I’ll not lose any sleep over it.”

 

She nodded, refusing to break his gaze as she did so.  Aye, Jon had known.  He’d known she meant to do violence when she had Ramsay moved from his cell, he’d seen what was left of Ramsay when the dogs had finished.  He hadn’t spoken to her of it yet – no one had – but he’d known.  And she’d not apologize for it.  The only thing she regretted was not being able to do it again.  So she held his gaze unashamed and waited for him to continue. 

  
“I’m glad you did it,” he said, looking at her earnestly.  “I am.  But Sansa, I need to know if you’ve been taking more vengeance behind my back.  We’ve just received a raven from the Twins bringing some… interesting news.  We said that we’d be honest with each other, we said we’d trust each other, so I’m asking you now, did you have Brienne kill Walder Frey?”

 

“No.” She said honestly, though her heart lifted at the news of his death.  “I didn’t Jon I swear.  Walder Frey had enough enemies beyond us though, he sons for a start, what makes you think it was me who did it?”

 

“He wasn’t just killed.  He was… well best not speak of it.  But his sons were killed as well which takes them out of the pool of suspects.  And your Uncle Edmure was still in chains at the time so there’s no one who seriously thinks it was him.  Even if he wasn’t, most figure he wouldn’t have the stones to… well, it was no small thing, what was done.”

 

She felt her lip quirk into a small half smile at the thought of vengeance having been taken against the Freys.

 

“Tell me.  How did he die?”  She could hear the hunger and excitement in her own voice but she didn’t care.  Jon looked at here warily, as if even now, even after Ramsay he still doubted she was capable of such bloodlust.  Seeing the sincerity in her eyes he sighed and continued.

 

“The sons were found in pieces.  Carved up in one of the cellars below the kitchens.  Walder Frey’s throat was slit while he sat in his high place in the hall.  It appears… well, they think that the killer _fed_ the sons to him before they killed him. Which is why you see they think it was very particular vengeance, and I’ve been asked on my honor whether it was undertaken at our orders.”

 

He fell silent once more, watching her for her reaction, but she just shook her head, “It wasn’t me Jon.  I wish it was, but it wasn’t, and I doubt Brienne would do such a thing even if I ordered it of her.”

 

“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” he said nodding.  She wondered if he trusted more in Brienne’s honor then her answer, but she let it go.  Something more pressing was burning in her mind making her feel as if her heart were going to burst.

 

“But if it wasn’t us Jon do you think it could mean…”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut at her words and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was.  He probably hadn’t given himself the chance to hope until now, not so soon after they had just lost Rickon.  He shook his head.

 

“We cannot know what it means, Sansa.  It could mean nothing.”

 

“Brienne saw her alive Jon, she saw her.”

 

“That was years ago now.  And it’s one thing to be alive and prisoner by Sandor Clegane, it’s another thing entirely to orchestrate the murders of half of the Frey’s bloodline.”

 

Sansa looked him over but said nothing.  He was resting his forehead on the palms of his hands, his fingers pulling at the roots of his dark curls in frustration.  He stared at the floor with unseeing eyes.  Bruises and cuts from the battle still riddled his body but he was oblivious to them – the only pain he seemed to feel was the agony in his mind forbidding him from opening the door to the possibility of more bitter disappointment.

 

“Can you not even let yourself hope?” She said, hearing her voice waiver with emotions she’d assumed had been beaten out of her long ago.

 

“I can’t.  It’d tear my heart out if it wasn’t true.  I can’t bear the thought of having to lose hope once again.  I just don’t know how many times I can put myself back together. We need to be grateful for what we have now. We have each other, we have our home.  We cannot tear ourselves apart thinking about what we’ve lost, hoping against hope for what we’ll gain again.  I can’t live like that.  I’m not strong enough.”

 

His broad shoulders sagged in defeat, and Sansa rose from her chair and went to lay a hand upon his shoulder. 

 

“I understand.” And she did.  Rickon’s death still weighed too heavily on Jon for him to cope with more hope now.  It was too much for him. But as she bade him goodnight, embracing him gently and laying a soft kiss on his cheek she realized that it wasn’t for her.  As broken as she was, as terrified as it made her to think about the people she loved once more, she realized that she needed to know.  And she couldn't wait on Jon to be ready - not when Littlefinger could call on her to pay her debts to him any day.

And so, before she could stop herself or think it over more she threw her cloak over her shoulders and made her way quietly through the halls of Winterfell.  She slunk quietly down the great staircase, padding softly through the winding halls until she got to the servants quarters where she knocked boldly on the door. A man with sleep in his eyes responded, cracking the door open to peer out at her.

 "Yes, Milady?"

“I need a message sent South.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! glad to see so many people were interested in the start of this story - I don' t know about all of you but I'm currently going through some serious withdrawal so its fun to speculate about season 7 drama. Just a heads up, I'm updating some of the tags now that I've got a more developed sense of where this is going so if anyone has an aversion to jealousy and dark protagonists this might not be the story for you. As always, comments and reviews are much appreciated!

 

Arya

 

The journey took her the better part of two weeks, and yet as she stood there, feet six inches deep in snow, she almost considered turning back the way she came from.  The stories that had traveled South had been clear, and they’d been in every tavern and pub along the way, but still it felt like a dream. 

_“Heard it was Ned Stark’s bastard who did it, beat Ramsay Bolton to death with his two bare fists he did.”_

_“I heard it was Bolton’s own wife.  She was a Stark once too you know.  Arya, or Sansa or some such thing.”_

_“Heard Bolton killed the last legitimate Stark boy before the fighting even happened.  Shot him with an arrow as he ran towards his family, and him only a kid and all!”_

Each night was ecstasy and agony as she made her way north. Tales of a bloody, merciless battle, stories of the last minute rescue by the Knights of the Vale and whispers… whispers of a King in the North.  A King who was born a Snow.

It hadn’t felt real.  None of it had, not until she saw the familiar wolf banners hanging down over the grey walls of her home, still familiar despite the scars of fire and battle that marred the once-pristine stones. 

They were here. Her family – the family that she hadn’t seen in almost five years, the family that until two weeks ago, she hadn’t known was still alive.  Just the thought of it made it feel as if someone had grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed.  It was overwhelming.  It was terrifying.

_What will they think of me?_

She was not the child who had left for King’s Landing.  She had become dark and vengeful since then, private and distrustful of the world around her.

She should just walk through the gates, announce herself and throw herself into the loving arms of whoever was there to greet her.  But as she stood there, rooted to the spot she realized she couldn’t.  Not quite yet. 

So she retreated to the place that had become comfortable, if deadening, over the last eighteen months.  She tried to pack all of herself away into a tiny dark recess of her mind and become No One.  She put away the hope, the excitement, the giddy fear roiling through her stomach until all she felt was the biting press of the snow against her ankles and the chilly flutter of the breeze against the back of her neck.  And then, when she thought it was safe to try, she took out the face of the young page boy that she’d brought with her, stowed her things in a fallen log and made her way into the castle.

There were enough people there, between the nights from the Vale, the servants who had flocked back to serve under the newly restored Starks, and the Northern Bannermen that she was able to go largely unnoticed.  Her heart broke as she realized how many of the familiar faces that had filled the castle when she was a child were gone, killed by the Greyjoys or the Boltons or else fled, likely never to return.

She made her way to a mean-faced woman and muttered sheepishly that she’d been told to help serve supper in the great hall and was issued orders without question.  It was less than an twenty minutes to the feast and the kitchens were in a state of barely functioning chaos and before she has time to worry that her presence would cause suspicion she’d had a tankard of ale pushed into her hands and been shoved out the door with instructions to wait upon the lords that had begun to gather in the Great Hall.

Her heart was in her throat but her hands were steady as she made her way up the steps and into the Hall where she had eaten every day for most of her childhood. 

_Jon.  I’m going to see Jon._

But when she got to the Great Hall she found to her utter disappointment that the King’s chair was empty.  She stood there, frozen with disappointment for a moment, and then busied herself serving ale to the other lords and bannermen in the room.  There was no point in wasting the opportunity now that she'd gotten into Winterfell, and for all she knew Jon could merely be late.

She spotted Littlefinger sitting next to a petulant looking boy that she realized must be her cousin Robyn Arryn.  Rumors of his weakness hadn’t been wrong it seemed.  Arya was just surprised Littlefinger had let him leave the Vale.  Knowing Lord Baelish’s reputation, if he had allowed it, it hadn’t been an accident.

Still there was no sign of Jon.  She positioned herself so she’d end up pouring ale close enough to one of the other serving lads, and as soon as she got the opportunity she leaned over and whispered to him.

“Is the King not dining in the Hall today then?”

“No,” he murmured back in an undertone, “Didn’t you see him ride out yesterday?  He’s taking the prisoners up to meet the Night’s Watch himself, somewhere near Long Lake.  Now mind you serve the Lady Mormont before you move to the next table or they’ll box your ears.”

“What the young one?  She drinks _ale_?”

“Not much but she gets awful cross when she’s not served.  And when Mormont is cross the Lady knows.  She sees everything, the Lady does.”

Arya was just about to ask who he meant by _the Lady_ when the doors to the great hall were thrown open ceremonially.

Sansa.

She looked so much like their mother that Arya almost covered her mouth in shock.  She was more beautiful than Arya remembered, more beautiful and yet somehow much sharper.  There was a sternness that almost radiated off of her now, as if all the vestiges of girlish playfulness had left her long ago.  In Braavos, when Arya had heard the rumors that Sansa had killed Joffery she’d always scoffed at them as ridiculous fancy.  The Sansa she knew wouldn’t be capable of plotting to kill anyone. 

Now she wasn’t so sure.

 

Sansa

 

Hosting Littlefinger had grated on her nerves enough when he’d first come to Winterfell, but since he’d returned a week ago with Robyn Arryn in tow she’d had to fight the urge to scream every time she entered a room with him.  She knew what price he intended to exact for his help during the Battle of the Bastards, although he hadn’t told her yet.  She would have to marry Robyn Arryn and return to the Vale with them, back under Littlefinger’s control.  The only reason he hadn’t whisked her off the moment he was able was because he wanted to get the North to swear as much fealty to her and the Vale as was possible so that when he made his move on the Riverlands in her name the North would back her claim.  Now that her Uncle Edmure’s death had been confirmed – vengeance for Walder Frey even though he’d been in irons at the time – all the pieces were falling into place quite nicely for Littlefinger. 

Gods how she hated him.

And of course in the midst of all this Jon had ridden off, deciding at the last minute to go with the escort that was taking the Bolton men north to join the Nights Watch to treat with the emissary from the new Lord Commander in person. Jon had been more than fair after the battle, executing the leaders only and ordering one in four men who had risen up against them to take the Black.  Jon’s only moment of mercilessness came when he was left to deal with the Umbers – the traitors who had handed Rickon over to Ramsay after he had sought there protection.  Smalljon Umber had been killed by Tormund in during the battle.  Had he had the patriarch to take his fury out on Jon may not have done what he did.  But with him gone, well it had all still been too raw for Jon.  His inability to save Rickon burned through him, and with Ramsay gone he laid the blame at the Umber’s feet.  He’d beheaded every single male member of the Umber family himself, one after the other, until there was only one boy left, a lanky preteen who’d been the youngest son of Greatjon. 

“Be grateful I’ve left even one of you,” he’d spat gruffly as he sheathed his sword in disgust, “because of your house, there’s not one Stark boy left.”

He’d decreed that the boy would be a ward of House Mormont, and Sansa had thought he was done with disposing of their enemies from the battle with Ramsay.  She'd hoped he was ready to focus on the ones to the South for a change, but then the letter Raven from Castle Black had cme.  It had been cryptic, and most of it had hardly made sense to Sansa, but Jon had taken it deathly seriously.

_“Someone came from beyond the Wall.  Says he has information about how to defeat the Night King.  There’s more but it’s too important for me to put in a letter in case the Raven gets intercepted, but he has news for your ears only Jon.  If you can, meet us when we come to get the Bolton men at Long Lake.  He’ll come that far South, but no farther he says.”_

She’d argued with him – the whole thing seemed to scream trap to her – but he’d already made up his mind to go, and so in the end he’d ridden off and she’d been left here to keep Littlefinger at bay by herself.  And so she sat there, in the seat beside Jon’s empty throne, acting as the matron over the feast while all the while looking out for any hint any sign that their enemies were moving to strike in his absence. 

Her primary concern was Littlefinger, simply because she knew he was up to something, but recently she’d also begun to worry that Cersei’s long arm of vengeance might come reaching north now that she knew that Sansa was indeed alive.  Cersei still blamed her and Tyrion for Joffery’s death, she knew, and now with Tommen dead Sansa knew the woman she’d once thought would be her mother in law had nothing left to live for but revenge and the accumulation of power.  So she kept her guard up, even here, in the hall that had once belonged to her mother and father, taking notice of everything that might be concealing a potential threat.

And on that particular night, what she noticed was a serving boy.  He was a slight little thing, falling at least a head short of Sansa’s own height, with a thin but athletic build.  He was sandy-haired, with a ruddy complexion that seemed to grow brighter with the heat of the hall.  If she’d been only a few years younger she wouldn’t have noticed him at all, but in her current state of vigilance she thought, no she _knew_ she’d never seen him in the castle before.  And yet every chance he got to come to the head of the table, to refill the goblets and tankards of those sitting nearest her, he took.  The other boys tended to goof about once the feast was underway, checking in only occasionally to see that the drinks of the high folk were still full or else being jolted out of their sport by the sharp calls for ale from thirsty bannermen.  But not this boy.  Though he was careful to appear to be partaking in their chatter, his attention was fixed on the feast; fixed on her.

She pushed her goblet away, warily, not willing to make a scene but wholly uninterested in its contents.  She didn’t think he was an assassin – if he was he’d have no reason to stick around having already succeeded in filling all the other goblets at the high table – but he was definitely _something_.  A spy perhaps.  But from who?

She debated whether the insult would be too obvious for ten minutes before making up her mind.  She rose slightly and then feigned a slight faint, sending those around her vaulting out of their seats to help her.

“Sorry, I- I suppose I’m still feeling a bit ill from earlier.  I think I best retire to my chamber.  Lord Glover, could you be so kind as to see that some food is sent up?” she said breathily, simpering at the bannerman sitting just to her left before rising dramatically.  Though he’d never be a favorite of hers for refusing their summons when they were setting off to fight Ramsay, Sansa was fairly sure that Lord Glover was as he appeared, a simple and slightly cowardly man.  The chances that he’d thought to station spies among her serving boys were slim to none, and if she was at all right in her assumptions the minute she left the room he’d be hollering for a servant and sending the first boy who responded scurrying up the stairs after her.

“I’m quite alright, please return to the feast, I’ll see myself up to my chambers,” she said, dismissing the ladies who had come sweeping out of the hall after her.  One of two looked doubtful that they should leave her but she managed to crack a weak smile at them and said lightly, “no truly, I just needed space to breathe.  Please don’t trouble yourselves.”

Still unsure, but unwilling to contradict her directly, the two remaining women nodded and didn’t follow her as she made her way up the stairs to her chamber.  She was buzzing with adrenaline as she made her way slowly to her chamber, her ears pricked for any hint of the sound of approaching feet.

_You could just be being paranoid_.  She admonished herself, and yet her breath hitched as she heard the soft quick footsteps coming up the stairs behind her.  Almost without thinking her hand strayed to the dagger she’d begun keeping in her pocket and she gripped its hilt, flattened herself in a doorway to see who it was.  She’d have some explaining to do if it turned out to be someone innocuous but she didn’t think about that now – she’d decided it was more than time to trust her instincts when things felt off.  She’d spent enough years reassuring herself that all was well when all the signs were screaming at her to _do something_ , and she wasn’t about to go back to that now. 

So when the sandy haired boy appeared at the top of the stairs, headed with purpose in the direction of her chamber she didn’t stop to think, she drew her dagger and flung out her arm so that the tip of it was poking threateningly into the back of the boys neck.  And though her hand trembled when she spoke her voice came out strong and sure.

“Who are you?”


	3. Chapter 3

Arya

 

Her sister was taking it all rather well she thought, especially under the circumstances. 

Arya had been downright proud when Sansa had pulled the knife on her – although she could almost hear the Waif laughing at her from beyond the grave for having been caught in a disguise.  It had been a very brave move, and if Arya hadn’t known her way around knives so well Sansa would have put her at a distinct disadvantage. 

When she’d gone to remove the face that she wore, Arya had been so sure that Sansa would scream that she’d clapped a hand over her mouth in anticipation – after she’d knocked the knife away, of course.  But she hadn’t.  She’d had a sharp intake of breath, sure, and her cornflower blue eyes had widened at the sight, but there had been no shriek of terror.  This from the sister who’d fainted dead when a rat had streaked past her feet in the crypt when Theon took them down there on a dare.

No she hadn’t screamed.  Instead she’d stood in shocked silence for all of a second before pulling Arya into the warmest embrace she’d felt since they lost her father.  And then she’d dragged her into her chambers, the chambers which had once been their mother's, and barred the door behind them, pulling her down onto an their mother’s favorite chase lounge that still sat by the fire as if Catelyn had left it there just that morning.

So here they sat, splitting the wine and platter of food Arya had brought up from the feast and drinking their way through the awkwardness of things unsaid. She’d thought it would be serious, that the severity she’d seen in Sansa at the feast and her own darkness would make their conversation stilted and somber.  But as they sat there, fortifying themselves with the heady taste of wine, and enveloped in the comfortable familiarity of their mother’s old rooms, Arya found that she felt _light_ for the first time in ages.  Maybe it was the feeling of safety that had settled upon her the moment Sansa had barred the door, or maybe it was the joy of seeing her sister’s eyes filled with a love she hadn’t been sure existed.  Maybe it was just the wine.  But whatever it was, she felt _giddy_.  And so, it seemed, did Sansa. 

They spoke about Winterfell, about funny memories of the past and about the people who hadn’t changed, somehow, miraculously, in the intervening years.  They spoke about Jon, and how he was the still surly and easily flustered.  They kept their talk light until Sansa began to ask her how she’d come to hear that they had retaken Winterfell.  Sansa had hinted lightly at sending a messenger in the direction of the Twins to spread the news, and Arya had known, just _known_ that Sansa realized Walder Frey’s death had been at her hands.  So she’d told her older sister, bracing for all the levity to leave with every damning word she spoke. But when she’d spoken about carving up Black Walder and heading to the kitchens Sansa had done something she never, in her life, would have expected.

She’d laughed.

“Gods Arya, _pies_ though.  How on earth did you come up with pies?  Where did you even learn to _make_ a pie?”

Tears of mirth streamed down her sister’s face.  You’d have thought they were talking about a nameday prank, rather than a havoc she had wrecked on the House of Frey.  Arya supposed they were both a little unwell in the head, but a mischievous smirk had spread across her face anyway.

“A friend of mine who was travelling north with Yoren had been a bakers boy.  Never shut up about them.  When I got to the Twins, making pies based on his unwanted instructions was the only kitchen task I could even pretend to know how to do.  And then, well it just sort of, seemed to fit at the time, I suppose.”

“Mmm...” Sansa said raising her eyebrows sarcastically, her eyes still sparkling with mirth, “Yes a very natural next step.  Where any logical mind would have arrived, after a time.”

Sansa was mocking her, but somehow Arya felt better for it.  Whatever might have passed between them in the past, she wasn’t too broken for Sansa, and right now that meant the world. 

“And you?” She said, quirking an eyebrow at her sister, “I heard whispers that it was you who finished off Ramsay, and not Jon, for all the show he made of beating him to a pulp in the practice yard.”

Sansa’s eyes flared, but not in anger.  No, it was a different look, a lustful recollection of vengeance taken.  Arya had seen the same look in her own eyes when she’d glimpsed her reflection in the wharfs she’d walked past on the night she murdered Meryn Trant. 

“Yes.  I killed Ramsay.  Jon gave me that, though I don’t know he would if he had it to do over.”

Arya hadn't known what to make of that, but for now it could wait, so instead of lingering, she pressed on.

“And Joffery?  Did you kill him as well?  Those were the rumors in Braavos, though most of the blame was laid at Tyrion Lannister’s feet.”

Sansa shook her head slightly, her features turning somber for the first time.

“No, no that wasn’t me.  It wasn’t Tyrion either.  No, Littlefinger killed Joffery.  He killed Joffery, and he had a foolish, drunkard of a knight bring me to safety before he killed him as well.”

Arya could tell by Sansa’s reaction that the subject of Littlefinger held no joy for Sansa, and yet although she hated to ruin the moment, after a moment's pause she spoke again, feeling an unquenchable need to know all now that the subject had been breached.  

“Is that… is that why you trusted him?  Why you listened to him when he gave you to Ramsay?”

She’d been wondering what in the Seven Kingdoms could have convinced her sister to treat with the Boltons after their role in Robb’s death.  She didn’t want to judge – she couldn’t not after all she’d seen – but still it didn’t seem to make any sense.  Sansa had been devoted to Robb, of all of their siblings Arya would’ve sworn her sister loved him best. 

Sansa shut her eyes momentarily, as if recalling her trust in Littlefinger was physically painful, but she pressed on anyway, not shying away from Arya’s question and the admission of her own miscalculation.

“Yes, that’s why I trusted him.  I thought, for a time, that he cared for me.  That his love for our mother made him love me as well.  I thought that the fact that he’d killed for me meant that he’d defend me from harm.  It wasn’t until after Ramsay already had me that I realized Littlefinger had really been killing for his own benefit, not mine.”

She sighed, setting her goblet aside regretfully, all the mirth that had been in her earlier gone.

“And now, I’ve ended up back in his web.  I went to him, to get the help we needed in the Battle of the Bastards, and I’d do it again, without question, to save Jon and to reclaim Winterfell.  But the minute Jon returns from Long Lake, he’ll come calling to collect on my debts.  He’ll have me married to Robyn Arryn and headed back to the Vale, back under his shadow in less than a fortnight, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.”

Her voice was bitter by the end, and she stared into the fire as she spoke, as if she could see the unhappy picture of her future playing out in the flames.  Arya hated to see her this way, her sister who had grown so strong in the years since they’d parted, cornered by Littlefinger’s plotting once again.

So, of course, there was really only one way forward. 

“Do you want me to kill him for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its short, but oh so necessary. Needed to give the Stark girls the reunion I think they deserve so they have some time to celebrate their mutual badassery on their own. Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa

 

“Do you want me to kill him for you?”

It shouldn’t have surprised her, given what Arya had done at the Twins barely a fortnight ago, but the cavalier offer still rendered Sansa speechless momentarily. She lowered her goblet from her lips slowly and stared at her sister levelly to see whether she was speaking in jest or not.

Oh no, Arya was dead serious. 

“If the knights of the Vale found out that we had Littlefinger killed, they’d tell Robyn and he’d go back to the Eerie in a second.  That’s if he kept his temper and didn’t order them to attack us out of vengeance.  Which he might.”

“They wouldn’t find out.”

She said it with such confidence, it made Sansa’s heart race.  Could it be possible?  Could she do it?  Sansa had just seen what her sister was capable of – had just seen her take off a face as one might strip off a coat. 

“It would need to look like an accident.”

Arya nodded, still serious. 

“It would.”

Sansa’s heart was hammering as she stared at her sister, so much more contained than she used to be but somehow so much more violent.  She thought of Petyr Baelish, who’d saved her from Joffery only to hand her over to a tormentor who was even more vindictively focused on causing her pain.  Petyr Baelish who lusted after her for her resemblance to her mother.  Who would expect her to warm his bed even as he married her off to a petulant weakling of a child.  Who would stop at nothing to wrest power from those who’d mocked and doubted him.  Who through it all, seemed to honestly and truly believe that he cared for her.  Could she live with herself if he was killed at her request?

 _Yes_ , she thought, _yes I could_.

But it was more complicated than that.  There was someone else they needed to account for.

_Jon._

She’d told him she wouldn’t act anymore without telling him first, and there is no way he’d allow Arya to assassinate Littlefinger, no matter how badly Jon wanted to kill the man himself.  He was too honorable for that, even after everything that he’d seen.  He’d never condone such a killing, and he’d never forgive Sansa for ordering it without telling him, not after these last few weeks.

Steeling herself for the answer she was sure Arya would give, Sansa sighed and locked eyes with her sister once more.

“Could you do this, and not tell Jon?”

Arya’s eyes narrowed slightly and she cocked her head to the side considering.

“Why not?”

“He’s the King.  He wouldn’t approve of you killing Littlefinger without his permission.”

“He’s not _my_ King, yet,” Arya said, as if it would be unreasonable for a King to expect her refrain from murder before she’d explicitly consented to be ruled by him.

“Please Arya, he cannot know.  He’d never trust me again.”

“I could let you chose when to tell him—“

“Never, Arya.  I love Jon but he’s… set in his ways about some things.  I just can’t risk losing him, not when we have so little family left.  He’d forgive you, I’m sure he would, but me… I’d rather we not go through with it at all, than to have Jon decide he’s done with me because of another deception.”

Arya held her gaze for a long time, her silvery eyes boring into Sansa despite the drink, as if she was hoping to see straight into her soul.  Then she nodded slowly, seeming displeased but determined nonetheless.

“I won’t tell him.  Even if he asks, because I know it’s important to you, and it’d be stupid to let Littlefinger continue to threaten you.”

Sansa nodded, more grateful to her sister than she thought she’d ever been in her life.

“But that’s just this once Sansa.  I’ve no problem going against Jon when he’s being stupid – King or not – but I don’t want to lie.  I’ve done enough lying.”

They went to bed not long after, laying down back to back in the bed that had once belonged to their parents.  Sansa felt warmer and more secure than she'd had felt in years, despite the weight of what had passed between them.  She’d always resented the occasions where she had to share a bed with Arya when they were children – hating her sister for her wild energy and her almost deliberate tossing and turning.  All that was gone now though, he sister lay still and quite as the grave, with nothing but the tension in her shoulders revealing that she was in anything but a dead sleep.  There was still so much more they needed to discuss, so much she needed to know about the woman her sister had become. 

With that on her mind she slipped into a deep but dream-filled sleep.  Her mind whirled with scenes of Arya making her way through strange lands and far-away cities. Of Arya rushing through the woods on the King’s Road with the shouts of unknown men coming behind her.  Of Arya coming up behind a Petyr Baelish in the dark and stabbing him in the back, only to have him transform into Jon as he fell and began to bleed out into the crisp white snow.

She woke with a start.  She couldn’t do it.  She couldn’t ask her sister, her wild and magnificent and _fucked-up_ sister to slay her demons for her. Not only should she not be taking advantage of Arya’s willingness to spill blood, but she shouldn’t be coming between her and Jon before they’d even had the chance to see each other again. Littlefinger was her problem, and she could either kill him herself or live with the fact that he had her under his thumb once again.  She turned in bed, intent on telling Arya what she’d decided and then going back to bed and sleeping well past dawn.

But Arya was already gone. 

 

Littlefinger

 

For how much time he’d spent in the company of whores, Petyr Baelish really didn’t get all that much enjoyment out of partaking in their services.  Sure, he’d fucked his fair share of them, but for him getting secrets out of them had always been far more enticing than shoving his cock into them.  And that was precisely what he intended to get out of this particular night’s venture. 

It was nearly midnight when they left the great hall, despite Sansa’s uncharacteristic early departure, and he’d managed to wrangle up quite a gathering of men to visit the brothels in Wintertown.  He had, of course, seen to it that some excellent and loyal whores were installed in the brothels there in the hopes of gleaning as much information out of his Northern comrades as possible, but as of yet the men were proving entirely too honorable for his taste.  So alas, he was taking it on himself to see that this gathering of high lords did not go to waste.  He would have the wine flowing and the bodices opening and, gods willing, get tongues wagging before sunrise.

And so he herded the Manderly’s and the Glovers, the Knights of the Vale, and a fair few of the Wildling commanders (though not Jon Snow’s redheaded companion who must have gone to sheath his cock elsewhere) into the courtyard prepared to strike out despite the cold.  Some sandy haired stable boy had offered to act as his squire and their guide into Wintertown (most likely the lad was hoping he’d get to see his first pair of teets if he stuck close) and in less time than he’d expected their horses had been saddled and they were making their way out of the castle gates. 

Not a one of them was sober, and a few seemed in danger of losing their saddles, so they made their way slowly and boisterously though the night, singing lewd songs and tossing half empty wine skins back and forth.  The only person who seemed remotely sober, besides himself of course, was the skinny, sandy-haired page riding in the front with the lantern.  Littlefinger considered, not for the first time, that he really should take a page out of Varys’ book and do what he could to recruit children to be his spies.  This page, between the serving in the halls and the stables was likely to hear as many snippets of information as even the best whore.  Perhaps he’d pay for the boy to get a glimpse of some whore’s cunt after all, and see if he could pick his brain about all he’d heard during the course of his duties at Winterfell.  He was going to have to diversify, realistically, if he wanted to find out more about the new King in the North – Gods know that self-righteous bastard was too high and mighty to seek the companies of even the most discrete of whores. 

His mind was flitting through a series of disparaging thoughts on the new King Snow, when they arrived at the bridge that leads into Winter Town.  The bridge was little more than four roughly hewn icy logs, split down the middle and laid flat to create a ford where thick enough for one rider or two men walking abreast to cross at a time.  Beneath the paltry excuse for a bridge the Wolfswood tributary of White Knife frothed and swirled mercilessly.  Despite the cold, the river ran fast enough that its surface had not all frozen over, but the rocks which formed the rapids and stuck out like jagged teeth were all covered with a few inches of icy coating.  Seemingly oblivious to the perilous sight, the page boy plodded ahead, leading his placid mare onto the bridge unconcernedly.  Inwardly curing the obstinate and unnecessary toughness of Northerners Littlefinger pushed his own horse forward behind the boy, refusing to let the Northmen – or Gods, the Wildings – he was with see his apprehension at crossing the icy overpass.

He was about halfway across when the boy reached into his saddle bag.  Without looking, and without letting the torch that was in his other hand falter, the boy drew his hand out clutching something in a queer fashion.  His hand, which was cast into shadow by the angle, appeared to have suddenly become wrapped in something, as if in the span of a less than a second he’d wrapped a short, thick cord about it. Littlefinger peered at it curiously, an odd feeling alarmed feeling going off in his chest as if his body was reacting to some danger his brain hadn’t quite calculated yet. Then he saw the cord constrict of its own accord and he had a split second of clarity before the boy flicked the snake at his horse’s feet.  It wasn’t enough time to cry out, or enough time for him, poor rider that he was, to prepare himself as the gelding reared up in terror and flung him into the icy river raging below. 

The icy water hit is body like a thousand cold frozen knives, robbing him of his breath and shocking him so profoundly that he hardly registered the pain of his shoulder dislocating as it connected with an ice covered boulder.  The water swept his body along ten feet before his head resurfaced and he came up with a gasp.  Shouts of confusion were coming from his drunken companions, who’d clearly missed the trick with the snake in the darkness.  To them it would just seem as if he’d mishandled his horse and been thrown by a skiddish gelding.  Even in his pain and terror he could see the genius of it.

“I’m coming milord!”  The voice of the page boy rang out through the night and he watched through waterlogged eyes as the lead torch dropped, plunging the night into almost complete darkness.  

From the cries of “Oy! Lad!” and “You’ll get yourself killed!” Littlefinger realized what must have happened. The boy – whoever he was – had dived in after him. He was coming to finish the job. 

He tried to focus, tried to get himself to figure out which way to go to swim to the banks, but only succeeded in getting his body smashed up against a rock that jetted out of the darkness unexpectedly.  The blow caught him in the side, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to inhale a mouthful of the icy water.  He choked and sputtered, causing him to momentarily stop treading water, and his head was swept once more under the frigid surface of the water.

Stars erupted in the corners of his eyes and he felt the strength leaving him limbs as he fought his way pathetically towards the surface of the water. He hadn’t let himself think it until that moment, not even as he’d been thrown from his horse but suddenly the thought exploded in his mind momentarily distracting him from the burning in his lungs. 

He was going to die.

With that terrifying thought playing on refrain in his mind he gathered the last of his strength and, leveraging his foot in a rock beneath the surface, jettisoned himself up towards the surface of the water once more.  He broke the surface long enough to gasp in one tortured breath before his head was pulled back under by the tug of the current. His panicked mind was just about realizing the terrible finality his exhaustion meant when a small hand reached grabbed him by the collar and pulled his head above the surface.

He gasped and opened his eyes to find a girl, her dark hair slicked back from the water peering down at him with round silver eyes.  She was both darker and paler than his beloved, but her heart-shaped face and sculpted brows were a copy of her mother’s.  It’s a pity he didn’t see the resemblance when she was younger, he might have made more of an effort to find her as well as Sansa.

“Arya Stark.”  His voice was weak and trembling from the near drowning and the cold, and he hated to hear how much it sounded like a beg.

“Lord Baelish.” Her voice on the other hand held no tremble.  She seemed almost oblivious to her soaking clothes and the frigid temperature of the air and water. 

Perhaps the Starks did have ice running through their veins after all.

“You were not on my list, originally, although I’m sure that’s only because I don’t know the extent of your involvement in my father’s trial and execution.”

“Child, please let’s not start on such—“

“But then I saw the scars on Sansa’s back that that monster Ramsay put there after you gave her to him as part of one of your little games…”

“My dear I had no idea, had I known—“

“And I decided, that even if she change her mind—“

“Arya, for the love your mother bore me please—“

“—I’d kill you myself.”

Before he could get out another word the hands that were holding him up by his neck shoved backwards violently, smashing the back of his head against a rock.  Clouds of blackness began to fill his vision as those hands, those small delicacte hands, so like Cat’s, forced his head back beneath the icy water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said in the tags... sorry for the murdering but its kind of her thing... Hope you guys like it! Please review - I really appreciate the feedback!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for their awesome feedback! I really really appreciate it! Just a word to the wise about the next two chapters, I'm taking my own liberties with how some things in the ASOIAF world work, and I know that it may not be canon precisely, but its working for my story so I'm sticking with it. Hope you enjoy!

Jon

 

He rode through the newly fallen snow like a man possessed.  He’d only been gone from Winterfell for four days but it felt as if he’d heard a thousand years’ worth of secrets since then.  The burden of them laid across his conscience like a physical load, smothering him under the weight of knowing that everything he’d thought he knew about the world was a lie.

Even his own name.

They’d arrived at Long Lake two days ago, with the entire company of Bolton, Karstark, and Umber men meant to be turned over to the Watch.  Jon was surprised to see that Edd himself had rode own to meet them. 

“I’m just here for the day.  But I had to see that the messenger got delivered to you safely.  I’ll be leaving a few of our most loyal brothers here with you while you and him talk.  Take the time that you need, but remember I’ve a need for good loyal men with all these new recruits.”

“Of course.  It was more trouble than I’m worth for you to come yourself Edd.  You’re the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch now.”

“Aye, and you’re the _king_ Jon.  One of the only kings, mind, who’s given us the men that we need to have even a prayer against what’s coming.  I’d‘ve wanted to come just to thank you for that, but under the circumstances, well there was no other option.”

“You seem to think awfully highly of this messenger Edd.”

“Well, he comes from good stock, s’far as I’m concerned.  And, well, he’s _shown_ me Jon. I don’t need to take his word for it.  I’ve seen what he has to say – or at least the start of what he has to say – with my own eyes.”

Jon had nodded, not understanding a lick of what his friend was saying but not wanting to look too skeptical.  Edd had, after all, seen him rise from the dead.  He was entitled to believe in mysticism every now and again.

“Alright then.  Where is he?” Jon had said, ready to meet this messenger and get a sense for his truthfulness himself. 

“I can’t have the men – all the new men that is – seeing him.  It’s not likely, but there’s a chance that they’ll recognize him.  He’s made it very clear that’s not what he wants, leastways not if he can help it.  Besides, he needs you to meet with him in a specific place mind, so that you can see, rather than just hear him tell of what he’s seen.”

Alarms had gone off in Jon’s mind.  Had it been anyone but Edd, he’d have turned around and left right then.  Being taken to a special location to receive a “message” reminded him too forcefully of the night he had lost his life.  Being here, surrounded by Black Brothers once again, Edd’s request felt uncomfortably like déjà vu. 

 _Edd raised you from the dead._  He’d had to remind himself.  _If he wanted you dead all he needed to do was not bring you back to life.  You can trust him._  

“Alright, take me to him.”

He had. 

They’d gone off the King’s road, riding slowly through the evergreens, weighted down with snow for about a mile until they reached a ruin of some long forgotten fortress.  Jon had assumed they’d go into the fortress, that the messenger was somewhere inside, but Edd had led his horse around the perimeter until they reached a clearing, dominated by a gargantuan white tree with blood red leaves. 

Leaning up against the trunk of the weirwood, a dark haired boy on the cusp of manhood sat.  Next to him, a curly haired girl stood sentry, her quick fingers resting warily on her bow and quiver.

Jon had felt his knees go weak as he dismounted, trudging through the snow towards the pair, his heart beating wildly in his chest.  At his approach the boy had struggled to push himself up against the trunk of the tree, his lifeless legs flopping uselessly.  At the sight, Jon had broken into a run.

He caught his brother and pulled him off the ground in a bone crushing hug before Bran Stark could fall to the ground.

He’d ordered his entourage to make camp for the night there, his heart lighter than it’d been in years.  He had been climb the tallest mountain in the Seven Kingdoms and proclaim to the heavens that his brother had survived – that the Stark line lived on.  But Bran had stayed him in his revelry. 

“They cannot know who I am Jon.  We may stay for the night, but they cannot know that I’m anyone but a visitor from the Wall.”

Jon had looked at Bran askance at that, but he held his tongue – for now.  He’d have camp readied and hear what his brother had to tell him before he took to arguing with him.  He would, of course, be bringing Bran back with him, so if his men found out who he was today or tomorrow it made no difference.  He supposed another man might be sorry at having lost the ability to call himself king, but Jon did not – all he felt was overwhelming, inexplicable relief. 

The relief was short lived.

“I know it’s hard for you to believe—“

“It’s bloody well more than hard for me to believe, Bran its ridiculous! Why, why would he go through all those years of problems with your mother, all those whispers, all those slights on his honor if I wasn’t his son? If I was, if my mother was—“

“He loved her more than anyone Jon.  I know, I’ve seen—“

“Then WHY DIDN’T HE TELL ME?”

He’d known he was shouting but he couldn’t help himself.  It was all too much.  The Three-Eyed Raven, the Children of the Forest, the Night King, and then to hear that he was, he was—

Targaryen.  The name was as much a fairytale to him as the Children of the Forest Bran was speaking of.  What did he know of dragon riders, of silver hair and violet eyes?  What did he know of fire?

“Why didn’t he tell me…” his voice had come out as a whisper the second time, as a plea to the gods who seemed to mock him even as they spoke through his only living brother.

_No not brother.  Cousin._

 “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you.  I can think of a million reasons, but I cannot guess which of them persuaded him that you didn’t need to know the truth yet.  I don’t know why, but I know he loved you.  He loved you Jon, from the moment he saw you.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I can.  And I can show you so you know it to.”

He’d taken Bran out then, out of their tent and back to the roots of the weirwood.  And he’d seen.  Seen his father, no _Ned Stark_ , almost lose the fight he’d been famous for winning, seen him take the stairs to the Tower of Joy two at a time.  He’d heard the cries of a newborn child, and the screams of a woman ripped apart by childbirth gone awry.

He’d seen his mother, listened to her spend her last living breaths begging her brother to take her baby and keep him safe.  Safe from the Baratheons, who would kill a Targaryen child on sight.

He’d seen and he’d wept, falling to his knees as the vision of the past faded and they spun back to the present.  He’d stayed there, kneeling and weeping for some time, oblivious to everything but the pain of the truth and the firm grasp of Bran’s hand on his shoulder, offering him whatever solace he could.

He’d retired after that, seeking his bed and the sleep that he knew would not come, and they’d agreed to speak more in the morning, and to see to the business that needed their attention.  But when the first rays of light had cut through his futile attempts at rest Jon had found that he wasn’t yet ready to delve farther into the secrets of the past, or the horrors of the present, for that matter. 

So instead he snuck out of the tent, past the sleeping forms of his brother and the girl – Meera Reed, he’d learned – and went for a ride.

Which is how he found himself here, back on the King’s Road, indifferent to the dangers of riding alone, concentrating on nothing but the steady hoof falls of his drestier and the memories of what he’d learned last night.

He believed Bran, of course.  As Edd had so gallantly surmised, they’d seen it with their own eyes.  Disbelief in the face of such clear proof, though it would make him feel more secure, was folly.  He was not the bastard son of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell.  No, he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the House Targaryen and the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.  He didn’t even know if he was a bastard anymore.

 _“They could’ve married,”_ Bran had reasoned with him last night _.  “I haven’t seen enough yet to know how they were truly.”_

He should ask Bran to look, to find out if his mother had been kidnapped and raped into her pregnancy or if she’d runway with the Last Dragon of her own accord.  He should ask, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, and it would require him turning his horse around and going back to face reality which was more than he could manage just yet. 

He rode forward, something tugging at his mind, like an important thought just on the verge of being realized.  What was it?  His stomach had flipped at the ghost of a thought, something to do with asking Bran to look into his family…

And then it struck him, so profoundly that he pulled the reins of his horse in reaction.

Of course.  How could it even have taken him this long to realize it?  If he hadn’t been so consumed by his own shock at his identity it would have hit him long ago.

If Bran could look into the past, if he could travel anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms…

He could find her.

He had turned his horse around and spurred him into a canter again before he knew what he was doing.  As quickly as they’d ridden out that morning they flew back to the camp, snow and ice flying in their wake.  He’d get nowhere today, not on his drestier at any rate but he didn’t care.

He had to know. 

Jon rode into their impromptu camp in a rush, sending the men who were just breakfasting scurrying to their feet and reaching for their weapons.

“At Ease!” he ordered, the words coming out as something between a command and a pant as his chest heaved from the exertion of the ride.  But he didn’t even stop to catch his breath, he just strode straight into his tent, letting the heavy fabric fall shut behind him, as Bran and Meera looked up at him with a start.

“Arya.  Have you seen Arya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also - just FYI I wrote this chapter and the next chapter together (I originally wanted to just do one but then I decided to flesh the next one out a bit more) so it will be up tomorrow as soon as the maintenance is done. Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

Bran

 

He’d been disappointed but not surprised when he woke to see Jon’s bed abandoned.  He knew he’d lain a tremendous amount of information and pain on his brother, but in Jon’s presence he still felt like a child, wanting the comfort of his strong older brother after all these years on his own. 

He knew he had to steel himself from feeling that way – from being too familiar with Jon, from slipping into the roles they’d once played.  If he did, if he let himself go there, he’d never have the strength to deny Jon when he tried to take him back to Winterfell.  He’d never have the strength to choose loneliness and bitter cold over family and warmth, but he had to.  Already he could feel the strain of using the weirwoods South of the Wall, feel their hesitance to let him travel through their eyes.  It was taking more out of him each time, though he’d never tell Meera and Jon that.  Meera likely could see it without him saying.  He’d seen her purse her lips when he’d offered to show Jon the scene in the Tower of Joy yesterday, but he’d ignored it.  Jon had a right to know, and if Bran make it easier for him to accept what he never wanted to know in the first place it was the least he could do.

But when Jon threw open the flaps of the tent, hair and beard littered with ice and snow, wearing a cloak that looked so like his father’s Bran had done a double-take, he’d known he was fighting a losing battle.  He would do anything for his brother.

“Arya.  Have you seen Arya?”

Bran’s heart sunk at the words.  He had, but Jon was not going to like what he’d seen.

“It doesn’t work like you’d think it does Jon.  I can’t just will it to show me where a certain person is.  If I can get it to do my bidding, which is not always the case even at the best of times, I can only will myself towards a certain time and place.  I cannot scour the Seven Kingdoms looking for someone.”

He knew that for sure, he had tried on more than one occasion.

“But have you _seen_ her Bran.  Have you seen her since they took father?”

His stomach began to twist. This was a road that neither of them wanted to go down, of that he was sure.

“Only twice.”

No matter how hard it was to look, he’d managed to see a great deal of the rest of his siblings. Sansa, at Joffery Baratheon’s wedding, Sansa, with dark hair descending the stairs in the Eerie, Sansa getting married in front of the weirwood to Ramsay Bolton.  He’d watched Jon get stabbed, had watched Rickon get betrayed, had even seen Theon Greyjoy rediscover himself in the flight from Winterfell.

But Arya was a ghost to him, only showing up twice in all his hours of searching the Seven Kingdoms for wisdom.

“Show me.”

It was an order, and for the first time Bran realized how much his brother was different than he had been when they were children.  This was a man, a man used to having his orders followed.  A man used to enforcing with his own sword vengeance against those who defy his orders.  Still, he hesitated.

“They were both terrible Jon.  The first hardly counts at all.  It tells us nothing but that she survived on her own long enough to see father get beheaded.  That’s where I saw her, Jon, pushing her way through the crowd trying to get to the dais as father knelt to be executed.”

Jon looked at him stricken, his face even whiter than usual.

“They were both there.  Her and Sansa.  It happened right before their eyes.”  He felt the hot tears welling in his eyes.  He never should have looked.  Both times he’d seen Arya had been torture for him. Both times had been right in the beginning, right after he realized they could hear him, that he could touch the past.

Both attempts had failed to change anything.  All he’d succeeded in doing was being seen before the end had come.

“How, how did she escape?” Jon’s voice was weak but he pressed on, the need to know pushing him forward through the pain.  Bran could understand.  It was what had allowed him to see her both times in the first place.

“The recruiter for the Nights Watch grabbed her and pulled her away.  He must have known her.  He must have been trying to bring her to you.”

“Yoren,” Jon croaked.  “I never knew him, but I know he was killed on the King’s Road not long after Father was killed.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Bran dreading the question he knew was coming next.

“And the second time, Bran?  Where did you see her the second time?”  Jon’s voice was softer now, as if he appreciated the weight of what he was asking but couldn’t help himself.

“Jon it’s terrible, too painful for either of us to see.  The first time I saw it, it nearly drove me mad.”

Jon was as white as a sheet.  When he spoke again, his voice was quivering with fear.

“Did you… did you see her die?”

“No!” he said quickly, not realizing what Jon must have assumed.  “No, I didn’t see her die.  I don’t know if she’s alive or dead, what I saw was more than three years ago now…”

“Bran I must know, I must see.  Please, where did you see her?”

“The Red Wedding.”

Jon looked as if he’d just been hit.  He came down on his knees beside Bran and put his face in his hands.  He stayed like that for a long moment, frozen in horrified grief at the choice that was in front of him.  At last he raised his head again his eyes brimming with unshed tears.  When he spoke, his voice was gravelly with pain.

“Show me.”

Bran wasn’t going to argue it further.  Robb had been a brother to both of them, no matter who Jon’s true parents were, and Arya, Arya was still lost to them both. 

He didn’t think this would help, but this way at least they could look together.

Slowly, he’d nodded, and Jon had scooped him up in his arms, traipsing through the snow with purpose, as if he was afraid to give himself time to reconsider.  As they approached, Bran reached out a hand, thinking that the task would take some negotiating with the stubborn Southern Wairwood.  But the second his fingertips had connected with the bark, he felt the familiar hook in his stomach, and they were falling, falling into the trees memory. 

It was worse than he’d remembered.

His mother, turning up Roose Bolton’s shirt to find chainmail underneath.  Calling out to Robb to warn him, to let him know, only to find that it was too late.

Black Walder coming up behind Robb’s wife, stabbing into her swollen womb as the first of the arrows struck Robb’s body.

Jon stood transfixed with horror his eyes wide and tears leaking down his cheeks as men he’d known, men he’d fought with were slaughtered like animals in the hall while they feasted as guests.  He was rooted to the spot by his own agony.

But Bran had been here before.  More than a once, trying anything, everything, to change it.  He knew it was wrong, he just didn’t care.

He also knew that if they wanted to see Arya they had to move quickly.

“This way,” he said quietly taking Jon’s arm and pulling him towards the door.  Jon looked at him as if he were insane.

“We can’t leave him like this,” he said his voice choked, gesturing at Robb where he was sprawled out on the floor, crawling slowly towards his wife as she lay dying.

“We cannot stay if you want to see Arya.  We know what happens here. And there’s still time.  We can come back.”

His heart was heavier than he thought it had ever been.  Jon turned to back to him, looking wide eyed and lost, but let himself be led away. 

Bran had found her out here his fourth time, when he’d gotten it in his head to try to free Greywind.  He hadn’t known what difference it would have made, but he would have preferred the wolf to be with Robb, so that he could go down fighting rather than be slaughtered in a cage.  It had been right after he’d lost Summer, and it had seemed important somehow that he give his wolf’s brother that one last rite.

He pulled Jon along until they were standing right in front of Greywind’s cage. 

“Look.  Just there – kneeling behind that cart.”

Jon looked and for the first time since they entered the memory Bran saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Arya was taller than when she’d left Winterfell, but was still a child here.  Her hair had been cut short and hung in a bob about her ears.  She was dressed, quite convincingly, as a boy.  And her face was alight with hope – with the joy of thinking that she was so close, so very close, to the family she’d been without for over a year.

And then the violence began in the courtyard, and they had to watch as the horror of realization spread across her face.  They stood unable to move or speak as the men with crossbows came for Greywolf. For not the first time, Bran sent up a prayer of thanks when the Hound finally came and knocked her unconscious, pulling her away from the horrors that surrounded her.

Jon turned to him as the Hound began to fade into the night, pleading without words for him to take them from this hellhole.  

“Not yet.” He said softly.  “We can’t leave yet.  We owe him that much at least.”

Jon nodded, heartbreak written across his face.  They walked back into the great hall, its floors coated with blood to find Robb, kneeling beside his dead wife, while Catelyn Stark, Bran’s mother, held a dagger to the neck of Walder Frey’s wife.

Bran walked over to his brother, releasing Jon for a moment, and knelt.  When he spoke, his voice was gentle but firm.

“On your feet, Robb.  It’s almost over now, and we’re here with you, Jon and I.”

Robb’s eyes flicked up, staring directly into Bran’s.  Jon was frozen, standing stock still.

“We’re not dead – but we’re here with you.  The both of us.  We’ll be with you to the end.  Now on your feet.”

“Robb,” Jon choked out, “Oh Gods, Robb I’m so sorry.”

Robb’s blue eyes flicked to Jon and seemed to widen for a minute.  He heard them.  Bran knew his brother would hear him, but he was glad to see that he could hear Jon too.  So it was more than just being true siblings then – something else that made it possible.  Jon gave a nod to Robb, the man who’d been his brother, his best friend since birth and spoke again. 

“Aye, as he says Robb.  On your feet.  I’ve got you.”

Slowly, the arrows still protruding from his chest, Robb began to rise. 

“That’s it.  We’ve got you.  It’s almost over soon.  You don’t have to worry.  T-tell mother, she doesn’t have to worry.”

Bran’s voice cracked at the last words, but his gaze held steady.  Jon was flanking Robb on the other side and seemed to be supporting him subconsciously, even though Bran knew nine times out of ten he wouldn’t be able to touch anything in the dream world at all.

“Mother…” Robb began, his words sluggish from the pain.  He was hearing them though, he was doing it—

Then Roose Bolton came up in front of him, and shoved a knife into his heart.  Jon lunged at Bolton an enraged roar tearing from his throat, but he passed through the treacherous lord as if he were nothing but vapor.  Catelyn Stark let out a howl of agony and wrenched her knife across Lady Frey’s throat. Around them the memory faded to black. 

Bran came to with a start.  No matter what he did, things always ended up the same. They were both lying sprawled out at the feet of the Weirwood, where they’d apparently fallen when Bran’s fingertips had connected with the bark. Beside him, Jon was gasping as if he’d just come back from the dead.  Bran knew the sound, he’d watched him do it.  Meera was looking at them both with concern.

They didn’t say anything, but after he had recovered his breath Jon rose to his feet, scooping Bran up as if he still weighed as little as he had when he’d first fallen.  Then he walked him back through the snow to his tent, laid Bran carefully down on his pallet, and then plopped down himself on the King’s bed. Neither of them slept, but they lay there lost in silent contemplation for a long time.

Ultimately Jon ended up having to leave sooner than expected.  Word came from Winterfell that Petyr Baelish had died, having been thrown from his horse on his way to visit a brothel.  The Knights of the Vale were threatening to leave and return to the Eerie, and Robyn Arryn was still holed up in his rooms, crying his eyes out over the loss of his Uncle Petyr. 

“You have to come.  You have to claim your right as a Stark.  You should be King in the North not me.”

He had known it was coming, but he still winced as he heard Jon speak the words.

“I can’t.  You know what I am now Jon, you know that the role I have to play isn’t one of King.  I am the three-eyed raven, and I cannot be that from Winterfell.”

“Think of Sansa, think of the people of the North.  They deserve to see you restored to Winterfell.  They deserve to have a King who is a true Stark, not some bastard who’s not even the kind of bastard that he claims to be.”

Bran shook his head sadly.

“No, Jon.”

“But they deserve—“

“What they _deserve_ Jon, is a King that can lead them in to battle.  A King that can ride out to treat with the forces from the South and from the North when they come, and believe me Jon they will come.  They deserve a King who can secure the realm.  They… they deserve a King who can give them strong Northern heirs whose progeny will rule from Winterfell for a millennia.  I can do none of those things, Jon.”

 Catching the significance of the last phrase Jon’s eye’s grew round with concern.

“Bran, you can’t be sure of that.  It’s not always the case when people suffer a fall—“

“We’ve tried Jon.  I’m sure.”

They had.  They’d had plenty of long cold night alone together, just Meera and he.  But he was crippled in more ways than one, and it was all he could do to keep the bitterness at bay as he told Jon of it.

“Now go.  Go see to it that the Knights of the Vale stay the Winter, no matter what the cost.  We’ll need them for when He comes.  I will write, and let me know what goes on at Winterfell from time to time.  I cannot see everything, hard as I try.”

Jon had nodded, finally accepting his word that he would not be coming.  An hour later, Bran sat on his horse again, as Jon bound his legs into braces not unlike the ones he’d once used at Winterfell. 

“I’ll see to it that you have ones made for when you want to stand too.  We’ll have the best ones made that any craftsman in the North can make, and I’ll bring them up to the Wall myself if need be.” 

He nodded and let Jon fuss over him, as if he were still a boy in need of a big brother’s assistance.  Truth be told, he wished more than anything that that were still the case.

“I’m sorry I have to leave so soon,” Jon said absently, “if it weren’t for the Knights of the Vale I’d stay longer, but I’m concerned about Littlefinger’s death.  Not that he’s gone – Gods no – but that he was killed.  I think… I think Sansa did it.  Though for the life of me I cannot tell you how.”

Bran nodded, but he didn’t think so.  He had a sneaking suspicion when he’d heard of Littlefinger’s demise, a suspicion that made him even more determined to revisit the Twins as soon as he was able.  One long sought after death was a fluke, but two…

He bade Jon farewell, and turned to Meera, who seemed to see in his eyes already that there was something he needed to see.

“I think you’ve looked enough for one day.”

“Meera please, I just thought of it now, and I must, I must look.  It won’t take long, and then we can go.”

“No more than an hour.”

“No more than an hour, I promise.”

“Good.  I’m worried one of these times you won’t come back to me Bran.  Don’t prove me right.”

He nodded and she took him, laying him back down at the roots of the weirwood.  He was concentrating so hard on where he wanted to go that it took less than a second.

It had been cleaned, the Great Hall, though it was far from spotless.  There were no traces of the bodies that had littered it, at any rate.  If you hadn’t been there, you might not even believe that such an underwhelming room could be the sight of so much violence.

But he had been there.  And he had seen it.  He’d seen it this morning.

It was empty now, save for a lone old man, sitting at the high table, a goblet and a plate of food in front of him.  Bran longed to lash out and strike him, but he’d been in the dream world enough to know that it was likely impossible, and if it did happen…

Well there could be consequences he didn’t want.  Besides, he already knew this story had a happy ending.  He’d only come there to sit and watch.

A serving maid entered the room, carrying a pie on a platter.  She shuffled quietly, her head bent, up to the dais where the lord say eating.

“You’re not one of mine are you?”

“No, milord.”

“Didn’t think so.  Too pretty.”

Bran’s fists balled as he watched the old lecher slap the serving girl’s bum.  Gods he hated this man.

“Where are my damned moron sons?  Black Walder and Lothar promised to be here by midday.”

Bran’s heart started racing at that.  So it had already begun.  That meant that this pie was...

He moved to the high table to get a closer look at the girl.  She didn’t look like anyone he knew, she looked nothing like his sister, and yet…

“They’re already here milord.”

She knew.  She was in on it.  So it hadn’t been his sister after all.  He had just let wishful thinking get the better of him.  Disappointed, but not enough to leave, he leaned back against the table to watch the mystery girl work.

“They weren’t easy to carve…” she spoke softly, but steadily, as Walder Frey heaved in horrified realization.  Bran leaned in to get a better look at the pie crust the old man had just turned up.  He could see the remnants of a large toe, nail still attached, sitting in the pie.  So the retellings hadn’t exaggerated then.

Walder Frey looked up at the girl in horror, and Bran did too, wondering if she would give them some clue as to who she was working for before the end. 

But she didn’t keep speaking. Instead, she reached around the base of her neck and pulled.  In one horrifying movement her face came off to reveal another face, a familiar face.  One whose grey eyes were shining with vengeance.

“Arya,” he breathed. He watched with rapt attention as his sister told Walder Frey exactly who she was, and on whose behalf she was claiming vengeance, before slitting the old man’s throat.

“It’s good to see you sister.” He whispered in her ear as the lifeblood left Walder Frey’s body. “now go home.  Go home to Winterfell.”

Her eyes flicked across the room at his words.  He knew she heard him – they could always hear him when he tried, his siblings – but whether she knew it was him or thought he was Robb’s ghost he would never know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this was pretty sad for me to write (had to rewatch the red wedding scene like three times, wanted to sob a tonnnn) but its important for where I want to take the story so I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think :-)


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa

 

“The King’s party approaches Milady!”

Sansa thanked and dismissed the page with an inclination of her head.  She shut the door to her chambers and glanced over to where Arya stood hidden, her grey eyes as wide as saucers.  They’d decided not to have her make her presence known until Jon arrived, to make sure that however Arya’s unexpected reappearance was taken, the reaction was set by Jon.  There were too many questions lords might ask, too many explanations they might seek about her survival for Arya to have to answer to anyone but the King himself, and that had meant meeting with her in secret in Sansa’s chambers, and stowing her away in unused areas of the castle as they awaited Jon’s return. 

Had she been the sister that had left Winterfell with Sansa all those years ago, their attempt to hide her presence wouldn’t have lasted a day.  This Arya though, this new, quite, and mysterious Arya, had had no problem moving unnoticed through the throng of visitors staying in Winterfell for the last two days.  Sansa didn’t know how she did it – they hadn’t gotten there quite yet, to the conversation where Arya told her how she learned to wear the faces of others and kill without leaving a trace – but from the time Arya had slipped back into her rooms two mornings ago, soaked through and half frozen but otherwise unharmed, she'd managed to disguise herself in the hustle and bustle of Winterfell perfectly without ever seeming far from hand.

As the reports had come in of Petyr Baelish's demise, it became even more clear just what Arya was capable of managing these days.

What she couldn’t manage, it seemed, was meeting with Jon Snow again.  Her face was as white as a sheet as she stared at Sansa, looking younger than she had since she'd arrived.  She was thrumming with nervous energy, her entire body tense as if she was prepared to spring into action at any second.  She looked nervous, she looked _afraid_.

Sansa remembered how she had felt as they approached Castle Black.  It was months ago now, but the feeling of apprehension still hit her like a physical wave when she thought about it.  She’d been afraid he would reject her – reject her like she’d rejected him for all those years.  That he would see her as the spoiled girl he’d known and summon Ramsay Bolton to reclaim his errant wife.  That he would see her for how pitiful and broken she was and laugh at how low she’d been brought.

But she’d forgotten that this was _Jon_.

Quite, tongue-tied, awkward Jon. Loyal Jon.  Willing to move heaven and earth for the ones he loved Jon.

“It’ll be alright,” she said lightly to Arya, trying her best to infuse as much comfort into her words as possible.

“What if he doesn’t like who I’ve become.”

“He will.  I was worried too, but he will.”

“Yeah but you were awful when we were younger.  You’re loads better now.  I’m _not_ though, I’m just more angry and more violent and—“

“He _will_ , Arya. When he sees you he’ll be so glad that you’re safe that it won’t matter that you’ve changed.  He’ll just be glad to have you back.”

It had been one of the best moments of her life, reuniting with Jon.  Brienne had been busy surveying the men surrounding the courtyard, the Black Brothers and the Wildings, but Sansa’s eyes had only done a quick sweep, looking only long enough to confirm that they weren’t Jon before flitting to the next face.  Then she’d seen him, standing at the top of a staircase peering down at her, his eyes wide with surprise.  Every step he’d taken down the stair had felt like a lifetime as she stood in the snow waiting, waiting to know…

_Please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me._

 He’d stopped a few feet from her, his eyes still wide, showing no sign of what he was thinking, until…

She couldn’t take it anymore.  She’d run into his arms and he’d caught her, holding her off the ground saying in the one hug what neither of them had been able to say to each other in words. You are family.  You are family and I love you.

They’d had so many fights since then that the memory of it almost pained her, sitting here in Winterfell as she looked at Arya.  

“He’ll be glad,” she repeated, attempting to ground herself in the present.  She and Jon could work on being siblings, on learning to trust again.  Arya could help with that.  Everything would be grand.  They could be a family again.

“Do you want to change?” she suggested lamely, thinking how she would have preferred to look less bedraggled if she had their reunion to do over.  “Would you like a dress?”

“No,” Arya said sharply. “No I haven’t worn a dress that goes to the ground in years.  I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in it.  Not that I ever did.  No, I’ll just take a clean shirt if you have one.”

Sansa went to the closet and produced a white linen shirt.  Unsubconsciously, and looking relieved that she had something to do with her hands, Arya stripped off her tunic and the shirt she was wearing beneath it, revealing surprisingly rounded breasts and two horrible half-healed wounds cut across her abdomen.

“Gods Arya!  Did Littlefinger do that?” Her whole heart froze as she thought about the danger she had put her sister in.  How stupid, how selfish could she be?  To ask her sister to go back into danger only hours after being reunited with her?  She was no better than the spoiled stupid girl she’d been when she left Winterfell.

Arya looked up at her curiously for a second, then looked down, examining her stomach quickly before shrugging dismissively. 

“What this? No Littlefinger wasn’t skilled enough by half to do this.  Don’t worry its not new - it’d be healed by now only I keep tearing the stitches.  I got this in Braavos.”

When in Seven Hells had she been in Braavos?  They really did need to finish the conversations they’d started, and not stop until every ugly detail was laid bare.  It was the only way they’d know how to treat each other moving forward.

Arya tucked the shirt in and re-laced her leather britches.  Her hair, which Sansa had convinced her wash the night before, hung soft and clean against the white linen, reaching just beyond her shoulders.  Sansa took a moment to appraise her sister, something she’d had limited opportunity to do until then.  The leather of the britches clung to Arya’s legs and hips, which, though they might never flare out with the overt femininity that hers did and their mother’s had, were far from boyish.  With the shirt tucked in, the high cut of the trousers revealed her tiny waist, lending even more emphasis to her newly rounded hips. Above it, Sansa could see now, even through the loose shirt, the outline of the high firm breasts that had surprised her a moment ago.  She’d realized that Arya wasn’t a child any more from the moment she revealed herself three days ago. Yet somehow it wasn’t until just now that she realized Arya was a _woman_. 

She’d been about to hand Arya back the tunic she’d been wearing, having picked it up absent mindedly and begun to brush it off, when the horns erupted in the courtyard.  With one panicked widening of her eyes, Arya was gone, running along the hall and down the stairs before Sansa could catch her. In her dress and heeled boots she’d never make it down to the yard in time to catch her sister. In a huff of frustration Sansa made up her mind, making for the ramparts overlooking the yard instead so she didn't miss a second of her siblings reunion.  She pushed open the door, and stepped out into the cool winter air just in time to see Arya streak to the middle of the yard and stop dead in her tracks. 

Against the dark earth of the yard she stood out like a beacon – white shirt on pale skin, her dark hair flying, oblivious to the freezing chill setting in as the last rays of the weak sun faded away.  It was a miracle no one had reached out and grabbed her for her presumption, running in front of an approaching king as she was.  Perhaps it was because they all saw what Sansa saw, staring down at her transfixed.  A Stark, stripped of all finery, but proclaiming her heritage from the proud set of her chin down to her firmly planted toes.   

Her heart was overcome with a swell of pride for her sister, for the woman that she had become, when Jon’s horse thundered into the yard.  Despite all her earlier assurances to Arya Sansa felt her breath catch at the sight of him rearing his horse to a halt at the sight of the girl standing in front of him. 

_He’ll accept her.  He’s going to cry out in joy as soon as he’s over the shock. He’s going pull her into a hug, and ruffle her hair, and rejoice at having his little sister back.  He’ll laugh, and drag her back into the hall, and we’ll sit and feast as a family.  Just wait._

But he didn’t cry out in joy.  When he got off his horse he didn’t scoop her into a hug, like he’d done when he’d seen Sansa.  He didn’t ruffle her hair, he didn't laugh and pull her merrily into the hall.

Instead, as he walked right to her and froze, staring as if he were in a dream. After a moment of waiting, Arya reached for him tentatively, her small bare hand brushing his large gloved one.  At the contact he seemed to realize, finally, that she was real.

But even then, he didn't rejoice as she'd expected.  Instead he sank to his knees before Arya, pulling her flush against him so the side of his face was pressed against her flat stomach.  Sansa watched, feeling an odd twist in her stomach as Arya’s hand wound itself in his dark curls, holding him against her as he clung to her.

 _No, not a child. She's a woman in truth_. Sansa thought as the ghost of a sob left her sister's lips and echoed up to where she stood watching, sounding more like a lover's sigh than a cry of woe. 

Sansa had prepared herself for them to be closer.  She’d prepared herself for them to share jokes, to share interests, to share time in the yard where Sansa neither could, nor wanted to, participate.  But as she saw Jon’s face tilt up, and gaze with so much raw emotion into Arya’s eyes she realized that she’d made a grave miscalculation.

She hadn’t prepared for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? I thought it'd be kind of good to see through Sansa's eyes, since we just had a reunion from Jon's eyes and since I don't think Arya knows how/what exactly she's feeling yet anyway. As always your feedback is much appreciated! Next chapter, some Arya/ Jon interactions. Also - Tormund and Brienne, because I promised and its fun.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all the positive feedback. I love getting it through the day and it makes me all the more happy to write. This one's a lighter chapter (since all the feels of the last two gave me an emotional hangover) but I hope you like it!

Arya

 

She walked out into the practice yard, smiling at the sight of her breath shining in the early morning sun.  She felt better than she had in years.  Jon didn’t hate her.  She and Sansa were getting on.  True, things with Snsa and Jon had been tense, but still.  They had Winterfell.  They had each other.  She was happy, really and truly…

And yet…

Her body thrummed with pent up energy.  Keeping secrets from Jon made her restless, in a way that keeping secrets hadn’t in years. She’d tell him most things in time.  But last night she hadn’t been ready.  Her promise to Sansa had only given her the excuse she needed to keep him from seeing how dark she’d truly become. 

_“Lord Baelish, Sansa.”_

Jon’s voice had been demanding and gruff, attesting clearly to his displeasure at having to ask what he was asking.  Still, Sansa hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even lowered her gaze as she held his grey eyes with her blue ones.

_“An accident.  You can call Lord Royce if you don’t believe me.  He saw him get thrown from his horse on the bridge over the Wolfswood Fork.”_

_“I’ve already spoken to Lord Royce.  It’s you I want to hear from now.”_

_“I had scouts sent out, and they brought back his body Jon.  Drowned, just like the men expected he would be after that fall.  He’s still in the crypt if you want to see for yourself.”_

Jon had banged his fist on the table in frustration. 

_“I don’t want to go to the crypt Sansa. I want to know… dammit how can you expect me to believe that these advantageous deaths all have naught to do with you?  With this, and Walder Frey the week before—“_

_“I did that.”_

She’d spoken up from the corner of the room, not quite ready to have Jon know the truth about her, but unwilling to sit by while Sansa got the blame for a life she’d taken.  She was wholly unrepentant about killing Walder Frey, and she’d not apologize for having done so without Jon or anyone else’s leave.  Jon had just looked at her weakly, deflating at her words.

_“You… you killed Walder Frey?”_

_“I did.”_

_“And his sons?”_

_“Yes.”_

Jon had sighed at that, looking more defeated than she’d ever seen him.  He rose from his chair, and came towards her.  He was not so tall, Jon, shorter than Sansa she realized now that she saw them side by side. But he still towered over her, making her feel in that moment like the child he’d bade goodbye to before leaving for the Wall all those years ago.  His eyes had locked on hers, as they had on that day and she realized that she really didn’t know if she could bear to have him reject her for the things she’d done.  She wasn’t sorry – but she wasn’t ready to pay the price of Jon’s love either.

But he hadn’t rejected her.  Instead his calloused had had cupped her cheek, and he’d tilted her head up so she could see the earnestness in his eyes.

_“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry you had to do that.  I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do it sooner.  To take the vengeance our family was owed so you didn’t have to.  And I’m sorry – Gods Arya I’m so sorry for what you saw on that day.  For what you went to.  I’d move heaven and earth if I could spare you that pain, but I can’t, and I'm sorry for that most of all.”_

Behind Jon, Sansa’s eyes had widened in surprise.  She had wanted to ask Jon how he’d known – where he’d heard that she was at the Twins that day.  But her throat had glued shut at his words, as the memories of that day – that horrible, unspeakable day – came rushing back.  She hadn’t been able to speak, so instead she’d nodded and averted her eyes so he couldn’t see the tears building there at his words.

 _“Very well.  I’m sorry Sansa.”_ Jon had said, sitting back down and swiping a hand through his dark curls.  _“I shoudn’t have asked, I should’ve trusted you.  I just, I can’t help feeling that Littlefinger’s death is too convenient, too great a blessing for us for it to be a random blessing.”_

 _“He drowned Jon.  He fell from his horse,”_ Sansa reiterated, taking a seat beside him. She would live with this lie, Arya realized, watching her. Sansa had made her peace with it and would take it to the grave if necessary.

_“Aye, I suppose you’re right.”_

Arya had let that be the last word on it, bidding them both goodnight a few moments later.  She would keep the secret for Sansa – she understood now more than ever why her sister had asked for her secrecy.  But that didn’t mean she liked it.  And so even though things were good, better than they’d been in years, she desperately, passionately, needed to _fight_.

Her eyes widened in delight as she saw who she was looking for.  Brienne of Tarth, the woman who’d once offered to swear fealty to her before defeating the Hound.  She was good – Arya had seen how good – and she was the last person who’d likely turn down her down on account of her sex and noble breeding. 

Unfortunately, she was preoccupied at the moment.

The boy, or young man rather, who she was attempting to teach, was as flatfooted a fighter as she’d ever seen.  He had no sense for his surroundings, no ability to concentrate on attacking and countering at the same time.  He was awful. 

After a particularly spectacular failure of footwork left him falling backwards having tripped over his own feet, Arya felt herself snort with laughter.  Brienne’s eyes flew to hers, angry at her rudeness despite her own frustration with the boy.  Seeing her stern look, Arya wondered if Brienne had forgiven her for declining her protection all those years ago.

“You shouldn’t taunt Princess Arya.  It’s harder than it looks.”

She smiled at the squire, giving him what she hoped was a look of apologetic comradery.  “I know that.  It was painful and frustrating when I was learning, too.”

“Have you stopped training then, Princess?”  Brienne said in a light voice, reminding Arya that even though they’d only met briefly in the past, she had seen her practicing with Needle.  They’d spoken then, and Arya had liked her, until the Hound had pointed out the lion on the pummel of Brienne’s sword.  She knew now, that Brienne had indeed been true to her mother, but at the time, she’d had no way of knowing…

“I was able to get in a lesson or two since we last met,” she replied her voice matching Brienne’s lightness.  “I was hoping, perhaps, that you would train me.  When you had the time, of course."

Brienne smiled a small but regretful smile.  “I’m sorry Princess, truly.  But I cannot raise a blade against you, not even in to instruct you until you obtain permission from the King.  The risk is too great, and I am a guest in his castle.”

Arya had planned for this.  She smiled, and walked over to the armory, entering briefly to extract the two wooden staffs. 

“Would these do then?  They hardly count as raising arms against me – they’re not even sharpened on the end…”

Brienne smiled.  Not holding a grudge, then.  More good news.

“Very well.”

Arya threw her the staff and Brienne, after setting aside her sword carefully, began to circle Arya slowly. 

“You go first,” Brienne called out to her, clearly uncertain of how to proceed without knowing her skill level. 

Arya smirked.  “That’s not how it’s supposed to work…” she said, lunging and striking out at Brienne’s left side quickly before changing direction and rapping her smartly in the knee. “But I will if you insist.”

Brienne, not at all bothered by the fact that Arya had just gotten a strike in, grinned, recognizing the talent in front of her, and lunged into the fight in earnest.  They went back and forth, meeting each other blow for blow as they danced across the practice yard.  Brienne was slower than the Waif had been, but each blow had more force behind it, even when she wasn’t trying, and her reach far exceeded Arya’s.  It was good for her to learn, good for her to adjust to move with the blows instead of trying to brace for them, to dodge completely when she could manage and save her strength.

“What a fucking sight – I haven’t seen something this pretty since the last time King Crow shaved his beard.” 

Brienne’s eyes flew up to where the red-bearded wildling stood, coming towards them, and Arya saw her moment.  In one quick swipe she had Brienne off her feet and laying on her back in the practice yard.

Brienne huffed in frustration, realizing she’d been beat, but when she looked up at Arya the corner of her mouth was twisted up in a smile. 

“I was distracted.”

“Aye, I saw that.”

“Cheap shot.”

“Fair shot.”

 “Cheekly little minx this one!” Tormund roared in approval coming over to them and lending Brienne a hand.  For a second the female knight looked like she wouldn’t take it, but they were both sucking wind after the long minutes of fighting, and there was no way Arya would be much use getting her to her feet.  So she accepted the outstretched hand, with a grudging look on her face. 

“She doesn’t have the problem that most of you Southerners do, with your notions of honor and fighting.  She fights to win.  You could’ve been a wildling, lass, would’ve passed far better than that uptight brother of yours.” 

Arya grinned up at him, liking him despite Brienne’s clear annoyance. 

“And you think you can do better?” Brienne asked, her tone full of skepticism, “with no training and no appreciation for technique?”

“Oh I appreciated your technique verra much,” he said cocking his eyebrows at Brienne suggestively and letting his accent slip even further than usual into a brogue.  “I’d love to learn all about it.  But, there’s times for technique and _finesse_ , as it were, and times where ya have to brawl to survive.  You’re as fine a fighter as anyone I’ve ever seen, Lady Brienne.  But _no one_ brawls like Tormund Giantsbane.”

Arya cocked an eyebrow, liking this wildling more and more by the second.  Feeling recovered enough to have another go, she picked up the staff she’d laid on the ground and threw it to him.

“So show me then.”

Jon

 

When she hadn’t come to the Great Hall for breakfast, he’d waited at first.  She’d always been an early riser, ready to wake up and make war on the day, but she’d been a child then. 

_She’s not a child any more.  Maybe she’s different now._

 Or maybe it had been years since she’d gotten a peaceful night’s sleep.  Both were likely given the snippets of information he knew about her life since she fled King’s Landing.  He screwed his eyes closed at the thought.  Arya seeing her father executed.  Arya on the Kingsroad with Yoren, presumably there when he and his party headed for the Nights Watch were ambushed by Lannister soldiers.  Arya showing up a year later at the Red Wedding only to be dragged away at the last second by the Hound.  Arya fleeing Brienne of Tarth and disappearing without a trace for years, only to reappear back at the Twins, to take vengeance against Walder Frey.

Arya standing in the middle of the yard, her hair flying about her shoulders her stormy eyes fixed on him, trapping him, pulling him in.  At first he thought she was a dream, a vision his mind was projecting as it tried to make sense of what he’d seen in the Weirwood.  But she was too different, too grown to be a product of his mind.  When he thought of her, he’d always seen the child he left, the child whose eyes had widened with joy when he’d handed her her very own sword. 

But the Arya who’d come home last night was not that child, she was real and she was changed, molded by the cruel world that had raised them both.  He had to expect there would be differences.  Still, when he realized it was past ten in the morning he called over one of the attendants standing in the great hall, in spite of the patience he’d promised himself.

“Please have a serving girl go to the Princess Arya’s chambers to see if she has risen and has need of food to break her fast,” he said, marveling internally at how easily the lordly order flowed from his lips.  He supposed they’d both changed since he saw her last.

“I believe she’s already left her chambers, your Grace. She is in the practice yard with the Maid of Tarth.  Would you like me to fetch her for you?”

 “No, no that’s quite alright.  Thank you,” Jon said, feeling the tug of a smile playing at his lips.  He should have known.  Without waiting another moment he rose, sending the men in the Hall scurrying to their feet (the formal trappings of kinghood still surprised him as he went about his day) and made for the practice yard. 

It was a crisp but sunny winter’s day, and Jon felt himself smile in earnest as he emerged into the bright morning light.  It was an excellent day for training.  He might even get in a few hours himself, if the Northern Lords would grant him a reprieve from the planning of provisions for a few hours.  There was much work left to do to make up for the negligent indifference of the Boltons, but still, there should be some time…

He rounded a corner, expecting to see Brienne instructing Arya on the basics of swordsmanship.  Instead, he saw Arya and Tormund, circling each other, with wooden staffs in their hands, as Brienne, her squire, and nearly all the men at arms in the yard looked on.  Tormund struck out, fast and hard, and Jon almost cried out in warning, but Arya’s staff was there, countering his blow and catching the Wildling with a sharp rap on the forearm. 

They broke apart again and the circling continued.  This time Arya struck first, a well-aimed blow, meant to knock Tormund's hips off balance.  Had they been wielding swords, it would have. But these were staffs, and Tormund, as a Wildling who had spent his life fighting with blunted clubs and staffs as well as blades, knew the differences in fighting styles better than anyone.  He let the blow connect with his body, absorbing the impact, but caught the staff in his powerful grip wrenching it, and Arya, towards him forcefully.

Jon had seen him execute exactly this move of a number of grown men to deadly effect and stepped forward to intervene, feeling the anger build in his chest.  What the hell was he playing at?  She was just a girl.

But it seemed that Tormund had a better sense for Arya’s skills as an opponent that Jon did.  Instead of letting herself get pulled into Tormund’s deadly grip Arya released the staff instantly, causing Tormund to stumble forward as the staff he was wrenching away from her shot behind him with the lack of resistance.  As he bent forward to catch himself, Arya landed a swift kick in his ribs before retreating swiftly, rolling his discarded staff away with her foot as she went. 

She was good.  More than good, she was excellent.  Had the Hound taught her this then?  She’d traveled with him for months Jon knew, and his skill as a fighter, as a dirty, no holds barred fighter was acclaimed throughout the Seven Kingdoms.  Had he taught Arya to fight like this?

Tormund laughed, clearly thrilled to have such a worthwhile opponent, and they began to circle again, exchanging a sharp series of blows but neither connecting with their intended target.  Finally, Tormund caught Arya’s staff again, and Jon saw her set to release it.  But instead of jerking it towards himself as he had before, he pushed it back, catching her in the gut.  She caught onto his game and her hands resumed their grip on the staff quicker than Jon, or Tormund, would have thought possible, and she struck him smartly under the chin, knocking his head back.  They both moved backwards, laughing at the good sport of the fight, Arya gripping her stomach and Tormund massaging his jaw.

“Och, lass you’re far too pretty to be so deadly.  These poor bastards won’t stand a chance,” the Wildling commander said, good naturedly, clearly impressed with her performance.  Arya, who had been bent double catching her breath, stood up and smiled.

“And you are almost cunning enough to justify your earlier boasting.  I’d be happy to brawl with you anytime.”

Tormund reached out a hand to shake on the end of the spar as was custom.  Arya reached to take his hand, and at once shouts erupted in the yard.  Her hand, which she’d pressed against her stomach after she’d been winded, was coated in blood.

“Look to the Princess!” Men cried and Brienne flew up to Arya’s side as Tormund stood dumbfounded, his eyes wide.  Vaguely Jon registered that some of the men at arms were shouting to at their comrades to restrain the wildling but he didn’t have energy for them.  All he could think about, all that mattered, was the blood he could see now seeping through the worn wool of Arya’s tunic. 

“Make way for the King!”

Tormund and Brienne’s eyes flew to him as he stormed to where they were, wide with fear.  Arya on the other hand merely looked annoyed. 

“Jon, relax its not what you think.”

“We need to get her on her back.  We need to stop the bleeding, Brienne help me,” he said, ignoring his sister’s protests.  The female knight complied immediately, lifting Arya as gently as could be an laying her down on the packed earth of the practice yard.

“Try to lay still Milady,” Brienne said in a soft voice, her eyes filled with concern.  Beside her, Tormund knelt too, his eyes full of worry and remorse.  Jon was on his knees as well in a second.

“Tormund, your dirk.”

The Wilding handed him the long knife without question, and Jon fixed his eyes meaningfully on Arya’s, holding them, pleading with her to heed him. 

“Lay still Arya, we must staunch the bleeding. Please.”

She looked exasperated, but she nodded, and without seeking any further permission he dipped the dirk beneath her tunic and cut it clean through. She wore nothing but a linen shirt beneath it.  It was damp from the sweat of her earlier exertions, clinging to every curve of her transformed body, but he didn’t have eyes for that now.  All he saw was the red shock of blood radiating out from her abdomen, soaking the shirt and beading on her pale skin below.  He drew the shirt up carefully, folding it over her chest to preserve whatever modicum of her modesty he could, and surveying the damage below.

The perfect creamy skin of her flat stomach was marred by two angry stab wounds. One appeared to be a clean stab, but the other, the one that was bleeding with renewed fury now, looked as if the knife and been twisted after it was inserted.  Whoever had stabbed her had not just wanted her dead, they’d wanted her to suffer in the process.  Jon knew – he remembered the difference between a clean stab and a twisted knife in the gut.  He’d felt both on the night he had died.

The wounds were nearly healed though, the larger one had merely broken open slightly with Tormund’s blow.  She was safe.

“I told you it was nothing,” she said irritably, wrenching her shirt back down.  “I’ll see the maester about it.  He’ll probably do a better job of stitching it than I did anyway.”

Although Jon’s shoulders had sagged with relief upon realizing that she wasn’t in mortal peril he still looked at her scandalized.

“What?” she said defiantly.

“ _What?_   What the bloody hell do you mean, what?  You’ve been stabbed, that’s what.  You’ve been sewing shut your own bloody skin, that’s what.  You just spent the morning fighting, with someone near twice your size and thrice your strength, knowing full well you could do yourself further injury.”

“Don’t compliment Tormund like that Jon, his head’s fat enough as it is already.”

“BE SERIOUS, ARYA!”

He hadn’t meant to shout, but his voice echoed throughout the practice yard causing an unnatural silence to fall over the men there. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

Arya propped herself up on her elbows and cocked her head to the side peering at him, her eyes glinting sliver in the sunlight.

“I’ve been serious Jon.  For years.  It’s the only thing I’ve known since I was a child.  I know how to be serious.  I know when to be serious.  But it’s not necessary now, Jon.  It’s just a scab come open, bleeding more than it aught because I’ve been practicing all day.  I’m not hurt, truly. I’m not in danger.  I’m safer than I’ve been in years.”

He blew out his breath in a sigh, not sure if it was one of relief or frustration.

“I just… I cannot lose you, Arya. Not when I’ve just found you. Please be careful.”

She smiled, arching a mischievous brow at him, reminding him once more of the child she’d once been.

“I suppose I could try, since you asked so nicely.”

He fixed her with a stern look and she threw back her head and laughed.  The sound of it broke the tension, and around him Jon could feel the people in the yard relax.  She was alright.  They were alright. 

Now that his fear had cooled Jon looked back at Arya, becoming suddenly aware of the state he’d left her in.  Her tunic was destroyed, cut clean down the middle.  Her shirt, which had been a clean white linen, was soaked through with blood and sweat, clinging to her every curve.  In the cold winter air her nipples had hardened, and even through the shirt Jon could make out their sweet dusty pink hue.  Her hair was a tousled mess, falling in layers around her face, with bits of straw sticking in it from the practice yard ground he’d just ordered her laid upon.  Her cheeks were flushed pink with the exertion of the fight, and her mouth quirked upwards in a teasing smile.  She looked like a woman who’d just sat up from an outdoor romp with a lover, if you could ignore all the blood, that is. 

Brienne and Tormund seemed to notice her state of dishabille at the same moment he did, and Brienne began to busy herself with her armor, apparently intent on getting off the tunic she wore underneath to shield Arya from prying eyes.  Tormund was having none of it though, and in one swift movement he took off his own bearskin overcoat and draped it over her protectively. Jon knew the gesture was significant to the Wildling commander - the free folk didn't have much, and Tormund's overcoat was both a testament to his skill as a fighter and a dire necessity in his violent, turbulent life.  That he was so ready to lay it down for Arya, who they both knew would be fine, was a sign.  Jon saw it, and all the Wildlings in the yard had seen it too.  She'd earned his respect, and she'd have his protection.

With her covered to his satisfaction, Jon bent, lifting her into his arms.  As he stood he looked down at Brienne and Tormund who stayed on their knees.  The whole yard seemed to hold its breath again.

“My King, I accept full responsibility for the injuries to Princess Arya.  It was I who initially gave her leave to practice without your permission,” Brienne said, her eyes bent low to the ground.  “I accept whatever punishment your grace sees fit to dole out.  But the sin is mine, and mine alone.”

Beside her Tormund’s eyes widened.  “Snow, don’t listen to her.  I crossed the line, fighting like I was.  If anyone deserves a lashing for the lasses injuries, it’s me.  Forgive the lady Jon, she was only trying to help.”

Arya looked at him sharply, her eyes promising retribution if he dared punish either of her opponents.  His blood still burned with frustration, but he appreciated Tormund's showing of loyalty, and he knew Brienne had done nothing deserving of blame.

“There’s nothing to forgive… for either of you.  Arya’s more than capable of talking people into doing what she wills.”

She looked at him in annoyance but without the sharpness she had earlier, so he continued hoping his next words could strike some sort of bargain with her. 

“She’ll be permitted to spar with you, with whomever she chooses, once she’s healed, so long as she lets herself heal.”

Brienne nodded, gravely, staying on her knees. “Thank you, my king.”

“Yer a good man, Jon Snow,” Tormund said softly.  Jon looked at Arya, who gave him a hint of a smile, her arms wound around his neck.  Gods the thought of her hurt.  He still wasn’t pleased.  He grunted in acknowledgement and turned to leave, intent on carrying her straight up to the maester. Still as he walked back towards the castle, he couldn't help himself.  His blood was running too hot not to get out some of his energy, and so he called out over his shoulder.

“And Tormund?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t go anywhere.  I’ll be back in a minute to spar.  Someone needs to teach you to pick on people your own size.”

“Ha! If that’s the lesson you want me to learn Jon Snow, best have the Lady Brienne do the teaching, the only thing about you close to my size is your ego.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the delay - I've been out of the country and then when I got back I had a really hard time with this chapter. I'm still not sure it came out the way I'd like, so any feedback you have would be greatly appreciated!

Jon

 

It’d been a while since he’d let himself get drunk like this.  The thrum of ale coursed through his veins, heating him from within as he made his way unsteadily through the quite halls of Winterfell.  He hadn’t meant to get this way, but he’d needed to do something, anything, to wipe the ungodly thoughts from his mind.

Instead, the drink had merely amplified them...

_“I can walk you know.”_ Arya had said, giving him an impatient look as he carried her up to the maester’s tower.

_“And what, tear open a few more of those stitches in your side?   I’ll pass, thanks.  Besides, opportunities to do heavy lifting are few and far between when you’re King.”_

She’d swatted at him in annoyance and he’d chuckled, holding her close as he walked up the stairs carefully. She was far from heavy, though she was solidly built despite her small frame.  He was glad to see it – it was all too common to see sharp bones and sunken cheeks these days, evidence of the slow, wasting away of starvation.  Wherever Arya had been, she’d managed to eat while she was there.

_“Who taught you to fight like that?”_

_“No one.”_

He’d raised an eyebrow at her at that, but she’d just shrugged and looked away, so he let it go.  Eventually, he would press her, insist that she tell him at least the bare bones about what had happened to her after her encounter with Brienne of Tarth, but it seemed that he’d have to drag it out of her and at the moment he was still too thrilled with her return to spoil it with fighting just yet. 

_“You impressed Tormund.”_

_“He impressed me.”_

She’d said it as if doing so was some sort of feat.  Maybe it was.  Still, he’d felt his lips quirk at the self-assured comment.  His heart had felt particularly full, joking with Arya, holding her close.  He’d missed her before, gods knew, but he hadn’t realized in how many ways.  Faster than he’d wanted, they were at the top of the stair, and he was pushing open the door to the maester’s room.  The maester, a new fellow named Maester Ennis who the Bolton’s had brought in had started in alarm at his sudden entry. 

_“Y-your Grace!”_ the Maester had stammered, scared, as always, that Jon would order him executed at any moment for his collusion with the Boltons.  Jon wanted to assure him that his fears were unfounded, but the truth was, if Sansa had asked it of him, had come to him with stories of the Maester mistreating her, he likely would have.  The first few days after they took Winterfell had been dark days. 

He’d laid her down, ignoring the maester’s flustered exclamations and had explained what had happened.  The maester had lifted the bearskin, looking at it distastefully, and Jon had felt heat rush to his cheeks as he looked down at Arya.  The shirt was still sticking to her body, as he knew it would be, half transparent in its destroyed state. 

_“Please remove your shirt, princess, so that I may inspect the wound.”_

Arya already had the shirt over her head before he’d even thought to turn away, and a moment too late he turned to stare at the wall, face flaming in embarrassment, the image of Arya’s naked breasts seared into his mind.  If embarrassment had been all he’d felt, it would have been fine.  Brothers can feel that.  But it wasn’t embarrassment that made his face flush and his heart rate notch up at the sight of her.  It was arousal.

What in seven hells was wrong with him.

_“Just a stitch of two, should do the trick.”_ The maester had said clinically, seeming not to notice Arya’s bare chest, which she was casually covering with one arm as she watched the maester work, her other hand still extended towards him.

He’d excused himself awkwardly, ignoring the questioning look that Arya gave him.  He’d needed to leave – had to get away from the churning in his gut and the ringing refrain in his head proclaiming him every bit the depraved bastard Ser Alister had proclaimed him. 

He’d gone down to the practice yard, had shirked his responsibility, and had proceeded to spar with anyone, and everyone who’d have him.  The steely clank of swords on swords, the dull ache of neglected muscles being tried, the sharp pain of blows landing true had all helped distract him for a time, but then…

Then he would see flashes of her in his mind. Her standing in the middle of the yard as he rode in, her hair whipping about her shoulders oblivious to the cold.  Her looking down at him, running her fingers through his hair as he hugged her.  Her taunting Tormund, fighting as good as any wildling spear maiden, challenge in her eyes and laughter on her lips.  Her sitting snug in his arms, letting him carry her up to the tower despite her clear lack of concern over her injuries.  And then, her stretched out half naked in the maester’s tower, one arm barely covering her breasts the other still extended towards him, as if she hoped to hold his hand through the stitching. 

She probably had expected that, her realized. Brave lass that she was, of course she hadn't asked him for it directly, would never dream of admitting she needed help to keep the pain at bay.  But she had needed his help, or at least could've used it, and he'd failed her. If the pull in his chest was brotherly love, he could have given her that, awkward though it might have been, could have let her grip his hand to find some release from the pain. But what he felt was something else.  He’d thought it was different than how he felt for Sansa because Arya and he had been closer as children, or maybe because he and Sansa seemed to squabble so much.  But he loved Sansa, passionately and unconditionally, as a sister he’d almost lost, and was fighting to hold onto this time.  But that love didn’t feel like this.  Sansa's beauty left him unfazed, or at most, concerned about what it might inspire in other men.  Arya’s beauty – far more understated, far less likely to inspire ballads across the Seven Kingdoms - made his pulse race.

_“Again!”_ He’d called after his fifth spar.

_“Your Grace, I think its best you—“_

_“Nonsense, again!”_

_“Jon.”_ Tormund was one of the few who still used his name, and the sound of it grounded him somehow, reminding him that he had to stop _himself_ now, that no one else would dare to contradict  if he insisted.  Despite the fact that he had no desire to stop, he gave the Wilding a curt nod.  He’d not abuse his power, not so quickly after having gotten it. 

_“Come, let’s get a drink.”_

So he’d gone with Tormund, trying to drown his thoughts with ale this time, rather than pain.  Again, he was met with limited success. Though he drank the ale down as if it were no more than water, and allowed himself to be drawn into the men’s antics for a laugh or two, his mind kept returning to his own depravity. 

Infatuation.

The word had swirled through his increasingly hazy mind.  He’d felt this before, his ability to concentrate, to focus on the tasks at hand, being replaced by a constant stream of thoughts and invented scenarios all focused on one person.  He knew where it could lead - he’d been willing to give up everything for Ygritte for a time, his honor, his vows, his very life.  He could not let it come to that – not when there was so much more to give, so much that he owed to those who had put their trust and their lives, in his hands. 

He had to do something, anything to quash the budding emotions swirling through his blood, to reverse the hands of time and go back to when he looked on Arya as a child and as a sister.  But he had no clue how, or even where to start.  So instead, he had continued to drink away the night, letting the evening spill out into the wee hours of the morning.  After his tenth ale the Wildling had had to intervene again. 

_“Tis a long winter yet, Snow.  Best not drink all the ale in one sitting.”_

So he’d nodded, and had gotten up, refusing the many offers from men at arms for help getting to his chamber.  And now he was here, leaning drunkenly against the door of his room, flashes of Arya’s bare skin still racing through his mind.

_Sick Bastard_.

He cursed himself again, pushing the door open angrily. His mind registered momentarily that the fire had been built up, and was crackling merrily as if it had been recently tended, even though he’d told the servants he was more than capable of tending to it himself.  He was glad for it tonight, though.  Attempting the task likely would’ve landed him headfirst in the coals.  He turned towards his bed, ready to let sleep engulf him, when he saw her. 

Arya sat propped up against the pillows in his bed, fully clothed and sitting on top of the covers, spinning the short sword he’d given her all those years ago in her hands absent-mindedly.

“Took you long enough.” She said, glancing at him sternly as if he’d missed an appointment they had set intentionally.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.  Why are you standing like that? Are you drunk?” She cocked an eyebrow at him judgmentally.

“Nevermind if I’m drunk. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Had to come. You’ve been acting weird all day, and I know why.”

“You do?”  His heart stopped beating at the thought.  Gods was it so obvious?

“I should have realized you’d feel like this, it makes sense, now that I’ve thought about it.”

He just stared at her, aghast, not knowing what to say. Even in his basest, drunken musings he’d never imagined she would react to his attraction with anything but distaste and horror.  She still thought they were siblings, after all.

“My stab wounds.  They remind you of what happened to you.  I should’ve told you before, rather than letting you find out like that.  I avoided it, because I didn’t want to get into it before.  I didn’t realize how much you’d freak out finding out this way.”

He shook himself, willing his wine-muddled mind to keep up with what she was saying.  She hadn’t seen then.  Didn’t know he was a sick bastard, merely thought he was concerned for her.  Which of course he was, but that wasn’t what had sent him from her room seeking oblivion through violence and drink.

“I didn’t freak out.”

“You could hardly look at me when the Maester was sewing me up.  You acted like it was too gruesome to bare.  And now you’re so drunk you didn’t even notice someone was in your room when you came in.”

He had no argument for that, so instead he glowered at her, hoping it would intimidate her enough to send her scurrying out of his rooms.  It did not.

“You could talk about it.  If you want.”

“Like how you talk about things?”

“I’m not the one drowning myself in wine over a few stitches.”

“No, you’re the one challenging Wildling generals to fights and getting your stomach split open.”

She flew off the bed, fury etched across her face.

“Fine.  If you don’t want to talk to me about it, then fine.  And so you know I _did_ talk about things to Sansa and it _did_ help – it helped us both.”

“You spoke to Sansa and not me?” Even though he’d spent the evening vowing to himself that he would begin his rehabilitation by putting distance between himself and Arya until his ailment passed, the thought of her turning to Sansa instead of him rankled. 

“I’m speaking to you now.” She said, looking at him as if he was stupid. He had no response for that.  She was right after all, she was speaking to him.  Here, in his room.

He returned to glowering, hoping it might have be more effective this time.  If anything, its potency got worse.

“Show me.”

“What?”

He couldn’t take this.  Couldn’t take her, here, telling him to take his shirt off after the day he’d just had.  She was trying to help him, trying to fix the wrong problem, but her sitting there, stretched out on his bed ordering him around with that bossy look on her face, was just adding fire to the flames.

“Show me.” She repeated, her eyes flicking to his chest as if she could see the stab wounds below.

“Its not proper.”

“Since when have I cared about what’s proper?  Besides,  you saw mine, gave the whole bloody practice yard a show of the King’s ugly little scarred sister.”

“You’re not ugly.”

She shrugged, as if she really couldn’t care less and he pushed on insistently.

“You’re not.”

“And you’re stalling.  Show me,” she said, jumping to her feet, Needle in hand.  “Or… I’ll show myself.”

She dipped her rapier playfully under the edge of his tunic, just north of his hip bone, a gleeful, mischievous look in her eyes.

“Keep that up and you’ll land yourself in a world of trouble.”

“Not a chance.  I’ve got an in with the King.”

She was being bloody impossible, and he could see there was nothing else for it. 

“Fine.” He huffed out in exasperation, pulling the tunic off over his head before he could remind himself why it was such a very bad idea.

“Satisfied?”

“Don’t be stupid.  I can’t see them through your shirt.”

His blood was boiling now, and he tugged the shirt off in frustration, throwing it into the corner of the room as his temper flared.

“There.  Are you happy now?”

But the mirthful look that had filled her face a moment ago was gone.  Her face was grave and stony as she looked at his bare chest.  Except for her eyes. Her eyes flashed sliver with anger, flitting from one scar to another, as if they were drawing furious energy directly from each of the red puckered scars that cut across his torso.  The sight of her looking at him like that took his breath away, not from lust of desire, but from pure awe that the girl he’d once known so well could look so like a the picture of vengeance itself.  This was a side of her he’d not seen before, the side that had taken the time to feed Walder Frey a meal made from his oldest sons before executing him.  It was beautiful, and utterly terrifying. 

“I would kill them for you." she said quietly, her voice low and deadly serious, her eyes still locked on his scars as her rage built.  He quirked and eyebrow in response.

 "I would kill every last one of them.”

“They’re already dead.”

Her eyes flew to his.

“Did you do it yourself?”

He nodded, his eyes locked on hers.  That was the way they’d been taught.  Ned Stark had insisted.

“Yes.”

She nodded in satisfaction.

“I killed mine as well.”

He should be glad, but part of him wanted to be able to hunt the person down who’d done that to her, to show her that he would go to the ends of the earth to punish those who dared to wrong her.  From the look on her face, the feeling was mutual.

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment and he became suddenly aware that he was still standing there without a shirt on. Instantly he regretted having thrown his shirt away.  He wished there was a way he could retrieve it without looking ridiculous. She seemed to notice too, and looked away, the moment of mutual loved fueled fury broken between them.  It was a pity.  Even though he hadn't been looking for this, it had helped, to share his hurt, his rage, his need for vengeance which somehow still flared despite having seen all of his attackers placed in an early grave.

“Well… if you want to talk about it.  Or about anything… you know where to find me.”

He nodded, still not sure what to say.  He wished then that he had Robb’s ease with words.  Seven hells, he’d even take Sam’s blabbering, anything besides his tendency for silence.

“I do. Thank you.”

Four words.  How prolific.  He cursed himself inwardly for sounding so distant, so formal.  She nodded, seeming to finally take to heart his dismissal.  He suddenly wished she would stay, would camp out in his room and build a fort with his furs and blankets as if they were still children, or better still would join him and lay close through the cold winter night, her soft exhales reminding him through the night that he was not alone, that there was someone else here now, someone worth dying for.  Someone worth living for.  Thoughts of self-comdemnation echoed through his mind again at the thought, and so he willed himself to stay silent.  The urge to get close to her was one he could not give into, he knew that now, no matter what his wine-drenched mind was screaming at him to do.

“Well… goodnight, then.”  She said, suddenly awkward and withdrawn.

“Goodnight.”  It had never been like this between them.  Never.  But he didn’t know how to fix it, so instead he just watched as she made her way to the door.  She looked back at him, giving him a small smile which he returned in spite of himself, and then she was gone, shutting the heavy wooden door behind her with a small click he would have sworn she was incapable of all those years ago.

It struck him once again how little he knew about what she’d been through, about what had shaped her life, about the person she was now.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

The words echoed through his mind as he pulled the covers down and threw himself into bed.

 Gods wasn’t that the truth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so so long! My computer died taking with it all of my plans for my fanfics and sending me into a royally bad mood. But I've just gotten some down time again finally and decided that some of these stories have too many fun places for me to go for me to be upset about rewriting and reimaging them. Hope you enjoy!

Sansa

 

She'd been living in a dream. There was no other explanation for how she'd failed to prepare herself for this - this awful yet utterly predictable moment.

After Littlefinger had died, Robyn Arryn had shut himself into his chamber sobbing like the weakling child he was and refusing to come to meals. She'd been all too happy to leave him like that, to ignore the oh so obvious truth that eventually he would emerge and they would have to reckon for the debt they owed the Eyrie.

She just hadn't figured it would come so soon. She'd been reunited with her two siblings for less than a fortnight now and she wanted some time to just savor it. True they were both impossibly different than they had been, both wild and scarred mirrors of their former selves, but they were still her family and being near them for these last ten days brought her more happiness than she'd felt since leaving home.

Ten days hadn't been enough - not nearly enough time for her to discover all the things that she needed to know about what had befallen both of them. Arya was still largely a mystery, only giving Sansa brief snapshots of her journey when they lay awake in the protective silent darkness of the night.

Those snippets had been few but had still taught her volumes about Arya's life since Kingslanding. She'd learned how close Arya had come to death with their mother and Robb at the Red Wedding, why she'd refused to leave the Hound and come north with Brienne. She'd even gotten a few fleeting hints about the cold violent and utterly mysterious life Arya had led in Braavos.

" _I was no one."_ Arya had whispered into the darkness as they lay together in their mothers old chamber, her voice laden with a somber weight that Sansa couldn't quite understand.

" _We've all lost ourselves along the way._ " She'd murmured back, trying to be comforting but knowing even as she spoke that her words merely hung useless in the still night air. Whatever her sister had needed to hear from her that was not enough.

They needed more time. And Gods did Arya and Jon need more time. They were so oddly reserved with each other, so painfully awkward to watch as they both attempted to adopt formal airs that they were both ill suited for. She knew the reason, though the thought of it turned her stomach with a nervousness she hadn't felt since Ramsay's death. She saw the way they both glimpsed at each other when they were unaware that someone else was watching. It was confusion she told herself - understandable confusion given the trauma they'd both suffered. They'd figure out soon enough how to love each other in a proper, familial way. They just needed time.

But, as she watched Lord Royce rise and call out for an audience in the midst of Robyn Arryn's first supper back in the great hall she knew, whatever time they needed, the Knights of the Vale were not inclined to give it.

"May I be heard your Grace?" The tall man called to Jon who, Sansa could see by his furrowed brow, was just as ill-prepared and unhappy at the prospect of the Eyrie coming to collect as she.

"You may."

"Good King, my Lord Robyn, though he still grieves for the loss of his uncle and protector Petyr Baelish..."

Sansa knew how much uttering those words grated at the pride of Lord Royce, to whom birthright and bloodlines were everything.

"...though he grieves, the Lord of the Eyrie still recognizes that the time for action is now! With House Frey reduced to nothing overnight and Jaime Lannister gone from the Riverlands we have before us the best opportunity we shall ever have to reclaim your the Riverlands which, with Edmure Tully unable to rule, by right belong to your sister. We could reclaim the Riverlands and unite as one the Eyrie the North and the Riverlands against the Cersei Lannister the incestuous usurping whore. We could unite - and stay safe and fed through the coming Winter together. Lord Arryn would fight for this peace and for your sister's right to her inheritance, were they to unite in marriage."

He was smarter than she'd given him credit for, Lord Royce. Announcing the proposed betrothal here, before a host of men and lords made it near impossible for Jon to refuse. He was cleverer still for mentioning food - something the Riverlands, even in their disheveled state, would be able to supply far better during the coming winter than either the North or the Eyrie. Passing up the opportunity of an alliance to seize the Riverlands with the support of the Eyrie could mean starvation for Jon's people. Still he glanced at her, his deep grey eyes meeting hers, and she knew despite their clashes, that he would not commit her without her consent.

"Lord Royce, we thank the Lord Arryn for his generous offer. We fully intend to retake the Riverlands which belong to my sister by right, and we welcome the Eyrie's support in that fight. My sister however, is newly widowed."

He paused here glaring at the room as if daring anyone to question what he was about to say next.

"And she is not yet three month in mourning. Our customs demand that we wait at least another sennight, to ensure that no child has come from the prior union before I may entertain proposals of marriage on her behalf."

It was a strange thing for Jon of all people to lean on - an old Northern custom to make sure no children got passed off as the product of a new marriage - but it was all he could do to buy her more time without giving a flat out refusal.

Lord Royce smiled, and Sansa felt her pulse tick up as a creeping feeling of being caught in another scheme washed over her.

"Of course your Grace. It is my fault, I suppose, for not being as clear as I could have been. Lord Arryn would gladly marry either of your sisters, as long as his brides claim to the Riverlands would be supported by your Grace. It was to Princess Arya that my original proposal was primarily directed, given Princess Sansa's recent... change in marital circumstances. The Princess Arya is unmarried, and as I understand it, a maid still?"

Fool. Clever though his plan was Lord Royce was no Littlefinger. The prospect of being so near triumph had made him arrogant with victory, and the questioning note in his last sentence echoed through the hall with its insult. Jon's eyes flashed with anger and Tormund, seated just to his left let out an audible growl of fury. Lord Royce - having lived the last seven years in the safety of the Eyrie did not understand how many of the men in the hall - like Jon - could no longer vouch for the maidenhood of their sisters, their daughters, and their wards. Having the virginity of a newly restored Stark princess challenged so openly was enough to prompt them into violence.

Sansa, whose eyes had been locked on Lord Royce standing before her and Jon sitting to her right turned to look at Arya, seated just to her left, realizing perhaps a second too late that the violence the men of Winterfell could wreck paled in comparison to what her publicly shamed sister might do.

But Arya wasn't looking at Lord Royce. In fact, she seemed to be ignoring the conversation about betrothal all together. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the serving boy who, at that very moment was bending to refill Jon's cup. Sansa looked back just in time to see the boy, who's face she knew, flash Arya an insolent and entirely uncharacteristic look.

Sansa opened her mouth to exclaim, knowing something was not right. But whatever she was about to say died in her throat as with a faint whoosh Arya sent her knife flying across the dais. For a second time seemed to stop as the blade flashed through the air. Until it landed with a sickening wet thunk in the back of the boys hand, pinning his outstretched arm to the table and sending the hall into instant chaos.


End file.
